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I 

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II 


LIBRARY 
Y  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


SEED-TIME  AM)  HARVEST; 


snturtjj,  ttjat  sljall 
it  nl00 


BY  T.  S.  ARTUUK. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
J.    B,   LIPPINCOTT    &    CO. 

1864. 

LIBRARY 

WSriVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


Entered  according  to  act  of  Congress,  tn  the  year  1851,  by 

T.  8.  ARTIIU3. 

In  the  Clerk'e  Office  of  the  District  Court  ot  the  Eastern  District  of 
Pennsylvania. 


PREFACE. 


THE  title  of  this  book  explains  with  sufficient  clear- 
ness the  important  doctrine  it  is  designed  to  teach. 
"  Whatsoever  a  man  soweth,  that  shall  he  also  reap/' 
is  a  truth  that  must  be  palpable  to  every  one  of  sound 
mind ;  for  an  effect  always  bears  in  it  the  quality  of 
its  cause.  If  men's  actions  are  governed  by  selfish 
and  evil  purposes,  a  re-action  of  evil  will  follow  as 
certainly  as  like  produces  like.  From  this  law  of  ex- 
istence there  is  no  escape;  and,  this  being  so,  every 
wise  man  will  take  heed  unto  his  ways. 

The  illustrations  of  our  subject  presented  in  this  vo- 
lume, the  ninth  of  the  "LIBRARY  FOR  THE  HOUSEHOJ-D," 
are  not  a  tithe  of  what  might  be  given.  Enough  is 
written,  however,  to  make  the  truth  we  wo  ild  teacti  so 
plain  that  even  he  who  runneth  may  read. 


CONTENTS. 


ACTION  AND  REACTION 7 

A  LIFE  LESSON 24 

UNFADING  FLOWERS 42 

THREE  SCENES  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  A  CONSUMPTIVE: — 

Scene  First 65 

Scene  Second 64 

Scene  Third 73 

The  Sequel 78 

THE  OVERPAID  CHECK 83 

THE  Two  ACTS  ;  OR,  "  THEY  HAVE  THEIR  REWARD"  104 

THE  LOTTERY  TICKET 120 

THE  MOTHER  AND  SON 137 

BETTER  TO  ACT  THE  GENTLEMAN 160 

PRINCIPLE  AND  INTEREST 172 

Is  IT  SAFE?     Is  IT  HONEST? 180 

HARMLESS  GLASS  OF  WINE 210 

1*  6 


SEED-TIME  AND  HARVEST. 


ACTION  AND  EEACTION. 


THERE  is  a  law  governing  in  the  affairs  of  life, 
with  its  award  of  good  or  evil,  according  to  the 
tenor  of  every  one's  obedience  or  disregard  thereto. 
Ignorance  of  this  law  exempts  no  one  from  unhappy 
consequences ;  and  yet  at  least  four-fifths  of  the 
human  race  appear  to  be  utterly  unconscious  of  its 
existence.  The  law  is  that  of  action  and  reaction, 
which  may  thus  be  stated,  in  order  to  make  it  clearly 
comprehensible. 

Every  act  of  man's  life,  whether  good  or  evil,  has 
a  reaction  of  consequence.  Whatever  we  do,  affects 
others  or  ourselves  in  some  way;  for  there  cannot 
be  such  a  thing  as  an  act  without  an  effect  propor- 
tionate to  the  action. 

This,  upon  a  little  reflection,  will  appear  sell- 
evident. 

7 


8  ACTION   AND   REACTION. 


The  importance  of  a  life  in  obedience  to  this  law 
must  strike  every  one  at  a  glance,  for  happiness  or 
misery  here  and  hereafter  depends  upon  it.  In 
great  things,  so  to  speak,  all  see  and  acknowledge 
the  existence  of  the  law  we  have  stated ;  for  exam- 
ples of  its  unerring  visitation  are  of  daily  occur- 
rence. How  sad  and  various  are  the  consequences 
that  flow  back  upon  men  for  evil  actions  !  But  in 
little  things,  as  they  are  called,  where  no  violations 
of  penal  statutes  or  public  opinion  take  place,  and 
where  no  reaction  is  apparent,  we  imagine  that  none 
will  ever  come ;  that  what  they  have  done  is  but  as 
in  a  void  immense.  This  is  a  fatal  error.  There  is 
not  an  act  of  a  man's  life,  little  or  great,  good  or 
bad,  that  does  not,  sooner  or  later  in  life,  react 
upon  him  with  its  full  quota  of  consequences.  A 
philosopher  has  said  that  the  stamp  of  a  man's  foot 
upon  the  earth  will  shake  the  universe.  The  re- 
mark is  more  likely  to  be  true  than  false.  We  can 
believe  it  more  easily  than  we  can  disbelieve  it. 
And  a  single  word,  a  look,  or  smallest  act  of  a  man's 
life,  forgotten  by  him  in  the  next  moment,  may 
shake  his  soul  to  the  very  centre. 

Alonzo  Turnham  had  never  heard  of  the  exist- 
ence of  the  law  to  which  we  have  alluded.  But 
that  was  of  little  consequence.  He  would  not  have 
credited  the  fact,  if  he  had  heard  it  stated.  The 
law  which  he  laid  down  for -his  government  was,  to 
geek  his  own  gratification  in  all  possible  ways  that 


ACTION   AND   REACTION. 


it  could  be  done,  without  so  far  trespassing   upon 
the  rights  of  others  as  to  give  them  the   power  of 
retaliation.     At  the  age  of  twenty-one,  he   started 
in  life  with  a  determination  to  succeed  in  the  world. 
He  saw  that  wealth  gave  the  means  of  self-gratifica- 
tion to  almost  any  extent,  and  he  resolved  upon  its 
attainment.     He  had  been  for  two  years  engaged  in 
the  study   of  law;    but  the  law  he    perceived   to 
be  too  slow  a  means  of  attaining  the  object  of  his 
wishes,  and  he  therefore  began  to  look  around  him 
for  some  quicker  mode  of  advancement.     He  pos- 
sessed some  literary  ability,  and  had  indulged  an 
early  passion  for  literary  pursuits  by  writing  for  the 
columns  of  a  weekly  newspaper.     This  made  him, 
to  some  extent,  acquainted  with  individuals  connected 
with    the   press.     Conversing,   one   day,   with   the 
owner  of  a  periodical,  the  latter  enumerated  many 
instances  of  persons  who  had  become  wealthy  in  the 
publishing  business.     Turnham  caught  at  this,  and 
pondered  it  in  his  mind.     He  had  a  few  thousand 
dollars,  with  which,  after  mature  deliberation,  he 
determined  to  purchase  a  half-interest  in  a  newly- 
started  weekly  paper,  the  projector  of  which  found 
himself    in  difficulties    and   compelled   to   take    a 
partner. 

Upon  this  new  pursuit  in  life,  Turnham  entered 
with  great  spirit.  There  was  a  newspaper  in  the 
city,  of  the  same  class.  It  had  been  in  existence 
for  some  years,  and  was  firmly  established.  Before 


10  ACTION   AND   REACTION. 


coming  into  the  business  himself,  Mr.  Turnham  had 
been  a  regular  subscriber  for  this  paper,  and  written 
for  its  columns.  He  had  always  liked  it,  and  con- 
sidered it  a  very  excellent  publication.  But  now  it 
wore  an  indifferent  aspect  in  his  eyes,  and  he  never 
took  it  up  without  a  disparaging  remark. 

"  Isn't  it  astonishing,"  said  he,  to  his  partner  in 
the  business,  one  day,  "  that  a  paper  like  this  should 
have  such  a  circulation  ?  It  isn't  comparable  with 
ours/' 

To  this  the  partner  readily  assented. 

Turnham  commenced  reading  the  number  of  the 
paper  upon  which  he  had  just  commented. 

"  Just  listen  to  this,"  said  he,  suddenly  ;  and  he 
read  a  few  paragraphs.  Then  he  added  ,  "  What 
do  you  think  of  that  ?" 

"I  shouldn't  like  to  see  that  in  our  paper/'  the 
partner  answered. 

"  No ;  it's  enough  to  kill  any  concern.  I'm 
sure  that  no  parent,  who  sees  it  and  reflects  upon  it, 
will  allow  another  number  of  the  paper  to  come 
into  his  house.  Very  certain  am  I,  that  I  would 
order  a  discontinuance  instanter." 

"  So  would  I,"  returned  the  agreeing  partner. 

After  sitting  silent,  with  his  eyes  upon  the  floor, 
for  some  time,  Turnham  said,  speaking  slowly — 

"  It  would  be  a  capital  move  for  us,  just  now,  to 
take  this  matter  up,  and  remark  with  some  severity 
upon  it." 


ACTION    AND   REACTION.  11 


"  And  get  a  storm  about  our  ears  for  our  pains." 

"  There  is  nothing  that  I  would  like  better.  It 
would  be  the  very  thing  for  us.  We  circulate  six 
or  seven  thousand,  and  they  twenty  thousand.  The 
controversy  would  make  us  known  to  all  their 
readers,  and  known  as  the  advocates  of  religion  and 
a  high  morality.  We  should  have  the  public  all 
on  our  side.  Without  doubt,  in  three  months,  their 
list  will  diminish  at  least  five  thousand,  perhaps 
more,  and  ours  increase  that  number.  It  is  a  tide 
in  our  affairs,  depend  upon  it,  that  we  should  take 
at  the  flood.  If  you  do  not  positively  object,  I  will 
fire  a  Paixhan  gun  upon  them  next  week,  and  then 
prepare  my  batteries  for  a  regular  fight." 

"  Just  as  you  like,"  returned  the  pliant  partner. 
"  There  is  no  doubt  of  its  doing  us  good." 

"  None  in  the  world.  This  false  step  of  our 
neighbour  is  a  lucky  thing  for  us." 

In  the  hope  of  building  up  his  own  establishment 
by  ruining  his  neighbour's,  Turn  ham  opened  upon 
the  rival  newspaper,  with  his  Paixhan  gun,  as  he 
called  it,  and  then  waited  anxiously  for  the  return 
fire.  A  week  then  passed  by,  and,  at  length,  wet 
from  the  press,  and,  to  his  imagination,  smoking 
with  wrath,  came  the  paper  he  was  so  anxious  to 
Bee.  lie  opened  it  with  eager  hands,  and,  starting 
at  the  first  editorial  column,  ran  his  eyes  over  the 
•whole  inside  page,  in  search  of  the  rejoinder  he  ex- 
pected. But,  to  his  mortification  and  disappoint- 


1*2  ACTION   AND   REACTION. 


ment,  not  the  slightest  allusion  was  found  to  the 
violent  attack  he  made.  But,  in  his  search,  one 
paragraph,  more  conspicuous  than  all  the  rest,  at- 
tracted his  attention.  It  was  this  : 

"  ENLARGEMENT. — The  publishers  of  this  paper 
have  determined  to  enlarge  and  greatly  improve  it. 
They  have  ordered  an  entire  new  font  of  type,  and 
will  add  a  column  to  each  page,  and  increase  the 
length  of  the  pages  several  inches,  so  as  to  give  at 
least  a  third  more  reading  matter.  Their  large  and 
rapidly  increasing  subscription  list  enables  them  to 
do  this.  In  advance  of  every  other  paper  in  the 
country,  it  is  their  intention  to  keep  in  advance, 
spite  of  all  competition.  To  this  they  stand 
pledged  to  the  public,  and  prepared  to  redeem  their 
pledge." 

Turnham  read  this  over  twice,  and  then  laid  aside 
the  paper,  in  a  very  quiet  and  deliberate  manner. 
He  had  been  completely  outgeneraled ;  and  he  felt 
it.  Instead  of  breaking  down  his  neighbour  and 
building  up  himself,  his  movement  was  likely  to  re- 
sult in  the  establishment  of  his  neighbour  on  a 
broader  basis,  and  the  complete  overshadowing  of 
his  own  concern,  that  would  be  in  danger  of  grow- 
ing feeble  for  want  of  sunshine.  He  took  it  for 
granted  that  the  determination  to  enlarge  and  im- 
prove was  the  mode  taken  to  answer  his  attack ; 
and  he  was  right.  It  was  the  reaction  upon  his 
selfish  attempt  to  ruin  a  neighbour,  in  order  to  build 
up  himself. 


ACTION   AND  REACTION.  13 


Ashamed,  after  having  written  so  warmly  against 
the  rival  establishment,  and  after  promising  to  refer 
to  the  subject  again,  to  drop  the  matter,  Turnham 
concocted  a  still  more  bitter  article,  in  the  hope  of 
provoking  a  reply.  To  this,  he  received  the  effectual 
and  silencing  rejoinder  of  an  enlargement  and  im- 
provement. The  appearance  of  his  neighbour,  so 
superior  to  his  own,  completely  disheartened  Turn- 
ham.  It  was  plain,  that  unless  a  paper  of  equal 
pretensions  were  published,  it  would  be  of  no  use  to 
struggle  for  an  existence.  The  list  they  had,  by  no 
means  justified  increased  expenses.  The  profits 
were  yet  only  in  prospect.  But  it  became  a  ques- 
tion between  enlargement  and  abandonment,  and 
they  chose  the  former. 

Not  six  months  had  elapsed  from  the  time  Turn- 
ham  entered  the  business  of  newspaper-publishing, 
before  he  was  heartily  sick  of  it,  and  determined  to 
sell  out  his  interest  for  the  sum  paid  for  it,  which 
was  three  thousand  dollars — more  than  double  what 
he  now  considered  it  worth.  He  had  a  young  friend, 
just  of  age,  who  had  been  smitten  with  a  love  of  the 
muses,  and  who  imagined  himself  to  possess  literary 
abilties  of  no  common  order.  This  person  received, 
at  his  majority,  some  six  or  seven  thousand  dollars, 
the  income  from  which  partly  contributed  to  his 
support  while  he  prosecuted  the  study  of  law. 

Upon  this  young  man,  whose  name  was  Wheeler, 
rurnham  fixed  as  the  scapegoat  who  was  to  bear  the 

IX.-2 


14  ACTION    AND   REACTION. 


evil  of  his  false  step.  For  a  month  or  two  he  ma- 
naged, whenever  he  met  him,  to  turn  the  conversa- 
tion to  the  subject  of  newspapers  and  periodicals, 
and  the  fortunes  that  were  every  day  made  by  pub- 
lishers. His  own  fortune  he  considered  as  made, 
for  the  paper  of  which  he  was  part  owner  was  in- 
creasing in  patronage  almost  beyond  precedent.  He 
affirmed  that  ten  thousand  dollars  would  not  tempt 
him  to  sell  his  interest. 

In  this  way  he  kept  the  young  man's  thoughts  in 
one  channel,  and  filled  him  with  a  desire  to  exchange 
the  slowly-rewarded  profession  he  had  adopted  for 
one  that  promised  such  golden  harvests.  At  length, 
he  vaguely  hinted  that,  if  he  were  not  in  so  good  a 
business,  he  would  be  tempted  to  join  a  friend  in 
opening  an  office  as  an  exchange-broker.  An  allu- 
sion to  this  was  more  distinctly  made  soon  after- 
wards— so  distinctly,  that  the  friend  could  not  help 
remarking  thereon. 

Finally,  by  gradual  approaches  on  the  subject, 
and  by  a  system  of  false  representations  ingeniously 
made,  Turnham  created  an  eager  desire  in  the  mind 
of  Wheeler  to  buy  out  his  half-interest  in  the  paper, 
and  actually  to  make  a  proposition  to  that  effect. 
This  proposition  was  met  by  certain  well-timed  re- 
marks going  to  show  his  reluctance  at  giving  up  so 
certain  a  means  of  fortune.  At  last,  he  agreed  to 
take  five  thousand  dollars  for  his  part  of  the  paper, 
which  was  paid  to  him  ia  cash. 


ACTION   AND   REACTION.  15 


"A  lucky  escape!"  he  said  to  himself,  when  the 
bargain  was  complete ;  and  so  full  was  he  of  self- 
congratulation  at  this  fortunate  turn  of  affairs,  that 
he  had  not  a  thought  or  feeling  of  sympathy  for  the 
friend  he  had  deceived,  and  who  lost  every  dollar 
invested,  and  became  involved  in  debt,  by  the  break- 
ing down  of  the  newspaper  in  a  little  over  a  year. 

Wheeler  saw,  after  he  had  been  in  the  establish- 
ment about  a  mouth,  that  he  had  not  been  fairly 
dealt  by;  and  he  also  saw  that,  unless  the  subscrip- 
tion-list of  the  paper  could  be  greatly  increased,  ruin 
was  inevitable.  He  struggled  hard  to  overcome  the 
difficulties  of  his  position,  but  he  struggled  in  vain. 
The  subscription  increased  but  slowly,  and  the  paper 
was  published  at  a  loss  from  the  day  he  bought  it 
until  it  stopped  for  want  of  means  to  carry  it  on. 

But  the  young  man,  deeply  as  he  felt  the  wrong 
he  had  sustained  at  the  hands  of  Turnham,  never 
uttered  a  word  on  the  subject  to  that  individual, 
although  his  manner  towards  him  became  reserved, 
and  their  intimate  intercourse  was  not  continued ; 
he  set  him  down  in  his  heart  as  a  dishonest  man, 
and  determined  to  mark  him  as  such.  After  retir- 
ing from  editorial  life,  Wheeler,  who  had  been  ad- 
mitted to  the  bar,  entered  upon  the  practice  of  his 
profession,  determined  to  rest  there  all  his  hopes  of 
future  success. 

In  the  mean  time,  Turnham  had  opened  an  ex- 
change-office, and  commenced  operating  among  a 


16  ACTION   AND   REACTION. 

class  of  men  quite  as  sharp-witted  and  far  more 
experienced  than  himself.  His  success,  during  the 
first  year  or  two,  was  by  no  means  equal  to  his  ex- 
pectations ;  but  after  that,  he  understood  the  opera- 
tion of  things  better,  and  knew  how  to  take  advan- 
tage of  the  almost  hourly  fluctuations  created  in  the 
money-market  by  the  eager  spirit  of  gain. 

At  tlie  age  of  twenty -five,  Turuham  began  paying 
his  addresses  to  a  young  lady  who  was  known  as  an 
heiress.  Her  parents  were  dead;  but  she  lived  with 
an  aunt,  for  whom  she  had  a  most  tender  regard, 
and  in  whose  judgment  she  reposed  great  confidence. 
It  happened  that  Wheeler  made  the  acquaintance  of 
this  aunt  shortly  after  Turnham  commenced  visiting 
the  niece  \  and  it  also  happened  that,  from  some 
allusions  made  to  the  young  man,  the  aunt  was  led 
to  ask  Wheeler  if  he  knew  him. 

"  Yes,  and  to  my  sorrow/'  was  the  unhesitating 
answer. 

"  Why  do  you  say  that  ?"  asked  the  lady. 

"  I  was  his  friend  and  confided  in  his  honour,  and 
he  deceived  me/'  replied  Wheeler. 

Nothing  more  particular  was  alleged  against  Turn- 
ham,  but  this  was  enough.  The  lady  took  the  pains 
to  ascertain  that  Wheeler  was  a  man  of  truth  arid 
integrity,  and  therefore  believed  what  he  said. 

When  Turnham  called  next  time  upon  the  young 
heiress,  with  the  intention  of  making  known  his 
sentiments,  he  was  told  by  her  aunt  that  she  did  not 


ACTION   AND   REACTION.  17 


wisli  to  receive  his  visits;  and  so  all  his  present 
hopes  of  obtaining  a  fortune  by  marriage  were  scat- 
tered to  the  winds.  But  he  never  dreamed  that 
this  was  merely  a  reaction  upon  his  own  conduct; 
nothing  could  have  been  farther  from  his  mind. 

In  entering  into  the  exchange  business,  Turnham 
had  not  contemplated  a  partnership  with  a  friend, 
as  he  stated  to  Wheeler;  he  had  only  said  so  in 
order  to  make  up  a  good  story.  He  commenced 
business  alone,  upon  the  five  thousand  dollars  he  had 
received  for  his  paper,  and  continued  it,  with  more 
or  less  success,  for  ten  years;  during  which  time  he 
had  married  a  lady,  older  than  himself  by  many 
years,  who  was  reputed  to  be  worth  fifty  thousand 
dollars.  The  fortune  turned  out  to  be  only  five 
thousand  dollars,  and  this  the  lady  had  taken  good 
care  to  have  so  secured  that  he  could  not  touch  it. 
At  the  end  of  ten  years,  by  a  sudden  change  in  the 
stock-market,  and  the  explosion  of  two  or  three 
fancy-stock  concerns,  Turnham  fell  short  thirty  thou- 
sand dollars — more  than  all  he  had  made.  The 
extent  of  this  loss  he  concealed,  and  soon  after  he 
began  to  look  around  him  for  a  partner  with  capital. 
It  was  not  long  before  he  found  a  young  man  whose 
father  was  a  wealthy  merchant,  and  inclined  to  fur- 
nish him  with  twenty  thousand  dollars,  if  he  would 
make  a  good  connection  with  a  well-established  ex- 
change-broker. 

This  was  just  the  thing  for  Turnham ;  and  he  so 
2* 


18  ACTION   AND   REACTION. 

represented  his  business,  and  gave  such  good  refer- 
ences as  to  standing  and  capacity,  that  he  succeeded 
in  his  wishes.  A  copartnership  was  agreed  upon. 
The  terms  of  the  connection  being  settled,  they  were 
placed  in  the  hands  of  a  conve}7ancer,  who  was 
directed  to  prepare  therefrom  articles  of  agreement. 
Before  these  were  signed,  the  father,  who  was  a  pru- 
dent man,  submitted  them  to  his  lawyer,  who  hap- 
pened to  be  Mr.  Wheeler,  now  in  a  good  practice, 
and  standing  high  at  the  bar  as  a  man  of  talents 
and  great  probity. 

"  Mr.  Turnham,  did  you  say  it  was  ?"  remarked 
the  lawyer,  with  an  expression  of  surprise,  when  the 
business  was  stated  to  him,  and  before  he  had  looked 
at  the  papers. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  returned  the  merchant,  who  was 
struck  by  the  peculiar  tone  and  manner  of  Wheeler. 
•*  Do  you  know  any  thing  against  him  ?" 

"  I  should  hardly  like  to  see  a  friend  of  mine 
connected  with  him  in  business." 

"Why?" 

"  Because,  to  speak  freely,  as  I  deem  it  my  duty 
to  do  in  the  present  instance,  I  do  not  think  him  an 
honest  man." 

"  Not  an  honest  man  ?  You  astonish  me,  Mr. 
Wheeler.  What  evidence  have  you  of  this?" 

"  I  will  plainly  state  to  you  the  fact  upon  which 
my  conclusion  is  based,  and  leave  you  to  make  up 
your  own  mind  on  the  subject.  I  have  no  wish  to 


ACTION   AND   REACTION.  19 

injure  Mr.  Turnham,  but  I  feel  it  to  be  my  duty  to 
warn  the  innocent,  when  I  see  them  run  into  dan- 
ger." 

Wheeler  then  gave  the  merchant  a  plain  history 
of  his  newspaper  speculation,  and  concluded  by  say- 
ing— "  I  have  stated  the  circumstance  as  it  occur- 
red ;  you  must  make  up  your  own  mind  in  regard 
to  it." 

On  the  day  that  the  merchant  waited  upon  his 
lawyer  with  the  articles  of  agreement  between  Turn- 
ham  and  his  son,  the  broker  found  himself  exceed- 
ingly hard  pressed.  A  number  of  heavy  drafts  for 
funds  in  his  hands  belonging  to  his  correspondents 
in  New  York,  Boston,  and  New  Orleans,  were  pre- 
sented, and  had  to  be  cashed;  also  several  notes 
given  for  stocks  that  were  not  now  worth  ten  cents 
in  the  dollar.  By  the  most  strenuous  efforts,  he 
succeeded  in  getting  through,  but  he  was  fully  con- 
vinced that  it  would  be  impossible  for  him  to  stand 
for  another  day  without  important  aid.  From  no- 
where could  this  come  except  through  his  new  part- 
ner, whose  appearance,  with  the  articles  of  agree- 
ment having  his  signature  attached,  he  had  been 
looking  for  hourly;  but,  up  to  four  o'clock,  he  had 
looked  in  vain.  Fearing  that  he  might  not  come 
in  before  morning,  and  dreading  the  consequences 
of  even  an  hour's  delay,  he  deemed  it  best  to  call 
around  at  the  store  of  the  young  man's  father,  and 
thus  give  matters  a  chance  of  coming  to  a  close.  If 


20  ACTION   AND   REACTION. 

a  good  opportunity  for  doing  so  occurred,  be  meant 
to  ask  to  have  a  few  thousand  dollars  advancad  on 
the  next  day.  In  fact,  the  hope  of  getting  hold  of 
the  money  was  the  only  reason  he  had  for  venturing 
to  press  matters  to  an  earlier  issue  than  they  would 
come  if 'left  to  themselves. 

Turn  ham  found  the  merchant  in  his  counting- 
room  alone.  His  reception  he  thought  formal  and 
even  cold. 

"  Is  your  son  in  ?"  he  asked. 

"No,  sir/'  was  replied;  and  then  there  was 
silence. 

"  Will  he  be  in  this  afternoon  ?" 

"  I  think  not." 

Turnham  felt  oppressed.  There  was  something 
in  the  manner  of  the  merchant  that  he  could  not 
understand ;  a  marked  change,  that  was  unacoun table,. 
After  sitting  for  a  short  time,  Turnham  arose  and 
retired.  The  merchant  bowed  to  him  low  and  for- 
mally as  he  did  so. 

"Something  is  wrong/'  he  muttered  to  himself, 
as  he  walked  hurriedly  back  to  his  office. 

The  evening  mail  brought  notice  of  drafts  at  sight, 
amounting  to  fifteen  thousand  dollars,  all,  or  nearly 
all  of  which  would,  probably,  be  presented  next  day. 
This  made  ruin  certain  unless  very  important  aid 
could  be  secured. 

The  time  until  evening  was  spent  in  efforts  to 
obtain  money.  He  talked  largely  to  those  upon 


ACTION   AND   REACTION.  21 


whom  he  called,  about  the  co-partnership  he  had 
formed,  and  the  great  command  of  capital  it  would 
soon  give  him.  All  this  was  credited;  but  the  par- 
ties had  not  the  money  to  spare  from  their  own 
operations. 

"When  is  this  connection  to  be  formed?"  asked 
one  of  the  persons  to  whom  he  applied. 

" Immediately/'  was  answered.  "The  articles  of 
agreement  are  drawn  up,  and  nothing  now  remains 
to  sign  but  them.  This  would  have  been  done  to- 
day, only  Mr.  H wanted  to  submit  them  to  hie? 

lawyer/' 

"  Who  is  his  legal  adviser  ?  Do  you  know  ? 

"I  do  not." 

"  Let  me  see — I  did  know.  Yes,  now  I  remem- 
ber. It  is  Wheeler.  Pie's  a  sound  lawyer." 

"  Wheeler !    are  you  sure  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  recollect  now  very  well.  Wheeler 
is  the  man." 

Turnham  went  back  to  his  office,  thinking  more 
seriously  about  his  conduct  towards  Wheeler  than 
he  had  ever  thought  before,  and  feeling  anxious  and 
alarmed  lest  the  lawyer  should  have  retaliated  upon 

him  by  informing  Mr.  H of  what  he  had  done. 

The  effect,  he  saw,  would  be  to  ruin  him. 

Turnham  slept  but  a  few  hours  that  night.  la 
the  morning,  he  arose  in  a  feverish  state  of  mind, 
but  resolved  upon  one  thing,  and  that  was  to  see  Mr. 
H— —  and  his  son  before  nine  oclock,  and  know 


ACTION    AND   REACTION. 


whether  the  articles  of  agreement  were  to  be  signed 
or  not.     Accordingly,  he  called  upon  the  merchant 

early.    Mr.  H received  him  even  more  coldly  than 

before,  and  the  son  looked  embarrassed  and  unhappy. 

"  Have  you  had  the  papers  examined  ?"  the 
broker  asked,  coming  at  once  to  the  point. 

"  We  have/'  replied  Mr.  H . 

"Are  they  properly  drawn ?"  asked  Turnham. 

"Yes;  but  since  I  saw  you  yesterday,  circuni 
stances  have  led  me  to  change  my  views  in  regard 
to  my  son.  Of  this  I  should  have  informed  you 
during  the  day.  I  trust  it  will  be  no  matter  of 
serious  disappointment.  A  connection,  fully  as  ad- 
vantageous as  the  one  about  being  formed  with  my 
son,  you  can,  without  doubt,  easily  make." 

"  The  reason  of  your  extraordinary  conduct/'  said 
Turnham,  who  had  become  quite  pale,  "you  will 
certainly  explain/' 

"I  can  make  no  explanation,  sir/'  returned  the 
merchant,  coldly.  "  My  reasons  for  what  I  do  are 
sufficient  for  my  own  justification.  My  conduct 
may  appear  extraordinary  in  your  eyes;  but  I  am 
satisfied  that,  in  reality,  you  have  no  right  to  com- 
plain of  it." 

This  was  all  the  satisfaction  Turnham  received, 
On  that  day,  his  acceptances  were  dishonoured;  and 
drafts  to  a  large  amount,  drawn  against  deposits 
and  collections  that  ought  to  have  been  in  his  hands, 
went  back  unpaid. 


ACTION   AND  REACTION.  23 

Ready  as  the  broker  would  have  been  to  secure 
something  for  himself  in  the  disaster  that  befell  him, 
it  came  upon  him  so  suddenly  as  to  leave  this  out 
of  his  power.  Every  thing  was  swept  from  hia 
hands,  and  he  was  compelled  to  begin  again  with 
less  than  a  hundred  dollars  in  his  pocket. 

For  once  he  saw,  as  well  as  felt,  the  reaction  of 
his  own  conduct,  and  was  forced  to  acknowledge 
that,  in  extricating  himself  from  an  early  difficulty 
by  improper  means,  he  had  laid  the  foundation  for 
ruin  in  after-life.  Could  he  have  seen  deeper  into  the 
relation  existing  between  causes  and  effects,  he  would 
have  understood  more  fully  the  greater  error  he  had 
committed,  and  trembled  in  fear  of  even  more  reac- 
tive consequences.  Doubtless  they  came. 

In  illustration  of  the  law  stated  at  first,  we  have 
chosen  a  very  plain  and  familiar  example.  Hun- 
dreds of  others  might  be  given,  taken  from  every 
grade,  and  involving  all  social  relations.  The  con- 
sequences of  every  one's  conduct  must  be  felt  in 
some  form  or  other,  earlier  or  later  in  life.  This  is 
inevitable,  for  against  all  action  must  come  reaction; 
and  they  will  bear  a  due  relation  in  quality  and 
force  to  each  other, — a  truth  that  we  cannot  lay  too 
deenlv  to  heart. 


A  LIFE  LESSON. 


MR.  PHTLTP  ELLIOTSON,  a  man  in  moderate  cir- 
cumstances, lived  in  a  neat  little  house,  which  he 
rented,  in  a  thriving  country  village.  He  was  keep- 
ing a  store,  which  yielded  him  a  very  comfortable 
living.  As  Mr.  Elliotson's  family  increased,  the 
dwelling  which  he  occupied  became  too  small  for 
him,  making  a  removal  or  an  addition  to  the  house 
necessary.  Being  a  good  tenant,  and  a  man  well 
thought  of  in  the  community,  his  landlord  was  very 
ready  to  build  him  a  couple  of  additional  rooms  for 
an  increase  of  rent  equal  to  ten  per  cent,  on  the 
outlay. 

Mr.  Gage,  the  carpenter,  was  employed  to  make 
the  required  improvements,  and  he  forthwith  went 
to  work.  It  was  not  long  before  a  suitable  frame 
was  erected  and  weather-boarded  in,  and  the  plasterer 
commenced  upon  the  interior.  On  the  morning  that 
the  plasterer  was  to  go  to  work,  Mr.  Elliotson,  who 
was  an  early  riser,  walked  out  into  the  yard  to  look 
around  and  see  how  the  new  building  was  progress- 
ing. The  first  thing  that  met  his  eye  was  a  load  of 

24 


A    LIFE   LESSON.  25 


lime  that  had  been  thrown  down  close  to  the  gate, 
where  the  plasterer  had  arranged  his  mortar-troughs. 
It  was  in  fine  large  lumps,  fresh  from  the  kiln. 

"  Just  the  thing/'  said  Mr.  Elliotson,  stooping 
down  and  turning  over  several  large  pieces  with  his 
hand.  "  This  will  save  me  from  buying  lime." 

Mr.  Elliotson  then  looked  about  him,  and  seeing 
that  no  one  was  near,  stooped  down  again,  and 
selecting  two  of  the  largest  lumps,  took  them  up 
and  carried  them  away,  remarking,  in  a  low  tone  of 
voice  to  himself,  as  he  did  so — "  They  will  never  be 
missed." 

The  lime  was  placed  in  an  out-building,  and  an 
old  piece  of  board  thrown  over  it.  In  a  day  or  two 
nfterwards,  it  was  slacked  and  used  in  whitewashing 
the  fences. 

Now  the  taking  of  a  couple  of  pieces  of  lirne  by 
Mr.  Elliotson  was  a  little  matter,  comparatively 
^peaking;  but  from  small  causes  important  results 
often  come;  and  they  came  in  this  instance.  It 
happened  that  Mr.  Gage,  the  carpenter,  saw  him 
take  the  pieces  of  lime — an  act  that  surprised  him 
very  much.  He  could  not  have  believed  Mr.  Elliot- 
son  guilty  of  such  a  petty  act  of  meanness,  not  to 
fsay  dishonesty.  Not  willing  to  condemn  a  man  in 
his  own  mind,  and  especially  a  man  held  in  such 
high  estimation  by  every  one  as  was  Mr.  Elliotson, 
M'ithout  bsing  very  sure  that  the  lime  had  been 
kiken  for  his  own  private  purposes,  the  carpenter, 

I.X. —  3 


26  A   LIFE   LESSON. 


on  coming  to  work  that  day,  and  after  Mr.  Elliotaon 
had  gone  to  his  store,  searched  about  to  see  if  he 
could  find  the  lime.  This  search  discovered  it  con- 
cealed beneath  an  old  board,  where  it  had  been 
placed. 

"  I  wouldn't  have  believed  it,  if  I  hadn't  seen  it 
with  my  own  eyes/'  said  Gage,  quite  confounded  by 
what  had  occurred.  "  Some  people  might  call  this 
honest,  but  I  don't,"  he  continued.  "  Why,  it's 
downright  stealing !  What  right  had  he  to  take 
this  lime  without  the  plasterer's  consent  ?  If  he 
had  asked  for  it,  he  could  no  doubt  have  had  double 
the  quantity  he  has  taken,  in  welcome ;  but  I  don't 
like  this — it  doesn't  look  well.  I  almost  wish  I 
hadn't  seen  it;  I  shall  never  feel  just  right  toward* 
him  again." 

The  carpenter  was  a  strictly  honest  man,  and  far 
above  an  act  of  meanness.  He  regarded  the  right* 
of  every  one,  in  little  as  well  as  in  great  things,  and 
could  not  tolerate  in  others  any  departure  from  rec- 
titude. What  he  had  seen  troubled  him.  He  tried 
to  push  the  thought  of  it  out  of  his  mind,  but  could 
not  succeed  in  doing  so;  it  haunted  him  for  days. 
When  he  met  Mr.  Eiliotson,  he  felt  like  avoiding 
him,  and  could  hardly  bear  to  look  in  his  face  whiks 
he  conversed  with  him. 

Gage  had  a  brother  who  owned  a  large  farm  in 
the  fertile  valley  of  a  river  whose  waters  passed 
through  the  village  in  which  Eiliotson  kept  store. 


A    LIFE   LESSON.  27 


The  village  was  a  depot  for  the  receipt  of  nearly 
the  entire  product  of  this  valley ;  it  contained  three 
stores.  Elliotson's  was  the  largest,  and  he  received, 
as  factor,  at  least  two-thirds  of  the  produce  that 
came  down  the  river;  the  selling  of  this  was  his 
chief  business.  For  several  years,  he  had  sold  for 
Mr.  Gage,  the  farmer,  the  products  of  his  land, 
consisting  principally  of  wheat,  rye,  corn,  and  oats; 
making  him  returns  according  to  the  ruling  market 
prices. 

Shortly  after  the  occurrence  of  the  little  circum- 
stance just  mentioned,  the  farmer  was  in  the  village, 
and  stayed,  as  usual,  with  his  brother.  While  with 
him,  the  brother  asked  this  question: — "How  does 
Elliotson  manage  your  sales  for  you?" 

"  Very  well." 

"  Are  you  always  satisfied  with  the  prices  he 
gets?" 

"  Why  no,  not  always ;  but,  then,  I  suppose  it 
isn't  his  fault.  The  markets  are  not  always  as  high 
as  we  farmers  could  wish." 

"  No,  I  suppose  not.  But  does  he  return  you  the 
highest  market  rates?" 

"  Not  for  every  consignment ;  but  quotations  of 
prices  and  actual  sales  do  not  always  correspond. 
Sometimes  we  send  down  a  lot  of  grain,  and  get  for 
it  more  than  we.  expected,  and  sometimes  less;  it 
is  just  as  it  happens.  Why  do  you  ask  these  ques- 
tions? Isn't  Mr.  Elliotson  the  fair  thing?" 


Ii8  A   LIFE   LESSOX. 

"  Not  exactly,  I  am  sorry  to  say." 

"  What !"    The  brother  expressed  stroDg  surprise. 

"  The  fact  is,  Henry,"  said  the  carpenter,  "  I 
have  lost  my  good  opinion  of  the  man,  and  I  will 
tell  you  the  reason." 

He  then  related  the  story  about  the  lime. 

"  That  was  a  little  business,"  remarked  the  far- 
mer, after  he  had  heard  the  relation.  "  I  could  not 
have  believed  that  a  man  of  his  standing  would  be 
guilty  of  such  conduct." 

"  Nor  I;  it  really  confounded  me.  I  have  thought 
about  you  ever  since,  and  how  easy  it  would  be  for 
him,  in  rendering  account-sales  of  your  produce,  to 
put  the  prices  down  a  cent  or  two  a  bushel  less  than 
what  he  actually  received.  It  would  be  a  little  mat- 
ter in  each  particular,  but  quite  an  item  in  the  years 
business." 

"  Indeed  it  would  !  But  I  can  hardly  believe  that 
Mr.  Elliotson  would  do  such  a  thing." 

"  Nor  can  I ;  and  yet  there  is  the  fact  of  the  lime 
staring  us  in  the  face.  That  shows  what  is  in  the 
man,  and  what  is  in  is  pretty  sure  to  come  out,  some 
time  or  other;  it  only  needs  the  opportunity.  When 
he  took  the  lime,  it  was  early  in  the  morning,  and 
no  one  about,  as  he  thought.  He  first  turned  it  over, 
and  then  raised  himself  up  and  looked  all  around 
him  carefully.  After  that,  he  stooped  and  lifted  two 
large  pieces,  and  carried  them  away.  It  looks  bad, 
doesn't  it?" 


A   LIFE   LESSON.  29 


"  It  certainly  does.  I  don't  like  the  appearance 
at  all." 

"  I  don't  know  how  you  feel  about  it/'  said  the 
carpenter,  "  but  if  I  were  in  your  place,  I  would  be 
loath  to  trust  as  much  in  his  hands  as  you  do." 

"  I  must  think  about  it,"  remarked  the  farmer. 
"  I  should  be  sorry  to  break  with  him,  for  our  inter- 
course has  been  pleasant.  He  has  always  made  me 
prompt  returns.  I  believe  I  never  had  to  write  to 
him  for  money  in  my  life." 

"  So  far,  so  good;  but  if  the  returns  were  actually 
bhort,  why" — 

"  That's  another  consideration  altogether." 

"  Indeed  it  is." 

Now,  although  the  suspicions  of  Gage,  the  car- 
penter, were,  to  all  appearance,  well  founded,  yet 
they  wronged  Mr.  Elliotson.  He  had  always  made 
the  most  accurate  returns  for  the  produce  sold,  and 
retained  not  a  farthing  beyond  the  regular  commis- 
sions agreed  upon.  In  all  matters  of  regular  busi- 
ness, his  ideas  were  clear  and  his  practice  blameless; 
he  considered  honesty  to  be  the  best  policy,  and  wa« 
always  honest  in  his  dealings.  The  matter  of  the 
lime  was  an  out-of-the-way  operation — a  kind  of 
accidental  affair,  for  which  no  rule  of  action,  involv- 
ing principle,  had  been  laid  down.  The  temptation 
came  suddenly  in  his  way,  and  he  fell;  but  the  fall 
was  so  light,  that  he  scarcely  felt  the  concussion  : 

he  was  but  indistinctly  conscious  of  having  done  a 
3* 


30  A  LIFE   LESSON. 


wrong  act,  it  was  such  a  trifling  matter;  but,  trifling 
as  it  appeared  to  be,  it  was  destined  to  produce  a 
serious  effect  upon  his  business.  The  first  effect 
was  the  loss  of  Mr.  Gage's  consignment.  The  fact 
stated  to  the  farmer  by  his  brother  rested  upon  his 
mind  and  troubled  him.  He  continued  to  send  his 
grain  to  Mr.  Elliotson  for  some  months;  but  his 
suspicions  being  aroused,  he  began  to  imagine  that 
the  account-sales  he  received  showed  a  low  range  of 
prices.  One  of  his  neighbours,  who  sent  his  produce 
to  another  store  in  the  village,  asked  him  one  day 
what  his  last  load  of  wheat  had  brought. 

"A  dollar  and  ten,"  replied  the  farmer. 

"  I  did  rather  better  than  that/'  said  the  neigh- 
bour. 

"Ah  !     How  much  did  you  get?" 

"A  dollar  twelve." 

"  Did  you,  indeed  ?    Herbert  does  your  business  ?" 

"Yes" 

"  Does  he  make  prompt  returns  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes.     He  is  very  prompt  and  very  correct/' 

"A  dollar  twelve!  Have  you  just  heard  of  the 
sale?" 

"  I  received  the  account  to-day." 

"  That's  strange !  My  wheat  was  in  every  way 
as  good  as  yours,  and  ought  to  have  brought  as  good 
i  price." 

Mr.  Gage  was  now  decided  in  his  mind  about 
changing  his  agent;  he  felt  satisfied  that  something 


A   LIFE   LESSON.  31 


was  wrong,  and  yet  there  was  nothing  wrong :  the 
grain  of  the  neighbour  had  been  received  three  days 
before  his  came  to  market,  and,  in  that  time,  the 
price  had  fallen  two  cents.  His  next  lot  of  produce 
was  sent  to  Mr.  Herbert,  who,  from  this  time,  be- 
came his  consignee.  By  this  change,  the  business 
of  Mr.  Elliotson  suffered  considerably.  Gage  was 
his  largest  consignor,  and  usually  made  heavy  pur- 
chases from  him  during  the  year,  thus  giving  him  a 
douMe  profit. 

From  this  period,  the  business  of  Elliotson  gra- 
dually declined.  One  after  another  of  his  old  cus- 
tomer^ in  the  neighbourhood  of  Gage  fell  off,  with- 
out assigning  any  reason,  and  went  over  to  Herbert, 
whose  operations  doubled  within  a  year.  The  cause 
lay  in  hints  from  farmer  Gage,  in  reply  to  questions 
as  to  why  he  had  changed  his  consignee.  He  suid 
nothing  touching  the  integrity  of  Elliotson,  but 
hesitated  not  to  allege  that  Herbert  obtained  better 
prices  for  his  produce ;  this  was,  of  course,  enough 
to  induce  others  to  follow  his  example.  At  the  end  of 
a  year,  the  business  of  Elliotson  was  so  much  reduced, 
that  he  found  it  very  difficult  to  keep  his  head  above 
water.  He  was  no  longer  as  prompt  in  making 
returns  of  sales  'to  the  farmers  as  before,  and  tlii^ 
caused  others  of  them  to  leave  him. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  Elliotson  ?"  now  began 
to  be  asked  among  his  neighbours.  "  He  seems  to 
be  going  down  hill." 


32  A   LIFE   LESSON. 


But  no  one  could  answer  the  question.  He  was 
known  as  an  active  and  energetic  business  man,  and 
it  was  believed  that  he  would,  in  time,  acquire  a 
fortune.  That  a  different  result  was  threatened, 
created  general  surprise.  When  a  man  begins  to 
go  down  hill,  there  is  but  little  hope  for  him ;  he 
rarely  fails  to  reach  the  bottom.  Thus  it  was  with 
Mr.  Elliotson.  In  three  years  from  the  day  he  was 
guilty  of  the  trifling  act  of  taking  a  few  pieces  of 
lime  that  did  not  belong  ,to  him,  he  was  sold  out  by 
the  sheriff.  Of  the  cause  of  the  blight  that  had 
fallen  upon  his  fortune,  he  had  not  the  most  remote 
conception.  It  never  entered  his  imagination  that 
a  suspicion  of  his  integrity  existed  anywhere,  or 
that  he  had  ever  given  cause  for  such  a  suspicion. 
In  the  calamity  by  which  he  was  stricken,  he  retain- 
ed one  consciousness — that  of  being  an  honest  man. 

Educated  in  a  store,  Mr.  Elliotson  had  no  ability 
for  obtaining  a  support  for  his  family  beyond  what 
such  an  education  gave  him.  He  was  a  good  ac- 
countant, and  had  a  clear,  strong  mincl.  To  any 
one  keeping  a  store,  who  needed  assistance,  he  would 
have  been  invaluable.  But  no  one  in  the  village 
was  in  want  of  assistance. 

With  a  family  of  four  children,  the  situation  of 
Mr.  Elliotson  was  painful  in  the  extreme.  The 
rigour  of  the  law  had  left  him  but  a  poor  remnant 
of  household  furniture,  and  with  this  he  was  about 
moving  into  a  small  cottage,  at  half  the  rent  he  was 


A  LITE   LESSON.  S3 


paying  for  the  comfortable  home  in  which  he  had 
lived  for  ten  years. 

Just  at  this  crisis,  intelligence  was  received  that 
the  Legislature  of  the  State  had  approved  an  appli- 
cation that  had  been  made  to  charter  a  banking  in- 
stitution, to  be  located  in  the  village.  Books  for  a 
subscription  to  the  capital  stock  were  immediately 
opened,  and  the  amount  required  by  the  charter  ob- 
tained in  a  few  days. 

As  soon  as  it  was  known  that  the  bank  would  go 
into  operation,  the  friends  of  Mr.  Elliotson  made  a 
movement  to  get  him  appointed  cashier.  He  was 
looked  upon  as  the  very  man,  and  some  of  the 
stockholders  went  so  far  as  to  say,  that  it  was  for- 
tunate for  the  institution  that  he  happened  to  be  out 
of  business.  Twelve  directors  were  chosen  in  due 
course,  and  then  there  came  an  election  of  officers 
and  clerks,  to  conduct  the  regular  business.  There 
were  many  applicants  for  these  situations.  Promi- 
nent, for  the  office  of  cashier,  stood  the  name  of 
Mr.  Elliotson.  On  the  day  that  the  directors  met, 
this  unfortunate  individual  had  but  five  dollars  left, 
and,  beyond  the  hoped-for  appointment,  no  apparent 
resource  in  the  world.  It  is  no  matter  of  wonder 
that  his  mind  was  in  a  state  of  great  anxiety  and 
.suspense.  His  friends  had  assured  him  that  he 
would  certainly  get  the  appointment ;  but  the  ne- 
cessities of  his  circumstances  were  too  pressing  to 
allow  these  assurances  to  give  him  full  confidence  in 


34  A   LIFE   LESSON. 

tho  result  of  the  election.  If,  by  any  mishap,  he 
should  not  be  appointed,  he  knew  not  which  way  to 
turn  to  keep  his  family  from  want. 

Among  the  directors  chosen  to  represent  the  in- 
terests of  the  stockholders  was  Gage,  the  carpenter, 
who  was  a  man  of  some  property,  and  had  sub- 
scribed quite  liberally  to  the  stock.  When  Mr.  El- 
liotson  was  proposed  to  the  meeting  as  cashier.  Gage 
became  restless. 

"  He  is  the  very  man/'  said  one. 

"  We  can't  possibly  do  better,"  said  another. 

"  There  isn't  a  name  on  the  list  of  applicants 
comparable  to  his/'  remarked  a  third. 

And  every  man  spoke  in  his  favour  except  Gage, 
who  remained  silent.  Just  as  they  were  about  bal- 
loting, the  carpenter  said  that  he  was  sorry  to  be 
compelled  to  object  to  Mr.  Elliotson,  but  duty  con- 
strained him  to  do  so.  And  then  he  related  the 
^ittle  circumstance  already  known  to  the  reader. 
He  ended  by  saying : 

"  This  may  seem  a  trifling  matter,  gentlemen. 
But  it  is  in  trifles  that  we  see  most  clearly  a  man's 
real  character.  It  shows  that  there  is  a  lack  of  in- 
tegrity in  his  heart.  I  feel  pained  in  making  this 
revelation,  but  duty  compels  me  to  do  so.  I  would 
not  be  true  to  the  trust  that  has  been  reposed  in  me, 
were  I  to  withhold  from  this  board  a  fact  that  may 
deeply  affect  the  interests  they  are  bound  to  pro- 
tect." 


A   LIFE   LESSON.  35 


Surprise  kept  all  silent  for  some  moments. 

"  Is  it  not  possible  that  you  may  have  been  mis- 
taken ?"  was  at  length  asked  by  a  member  of  the 
board. 

"  No,  sir.  I  saw  the  thing  done  as  clearly  as  I 
ever  saw  any  thing  in  my  life.  To  make  sure,  how- 
ever, I  examined  and  found  the  lime  in  an  out-houso 
concealed  under  an  old  plank.  In  a  day  or  two 
afterwards  it  was  slacked  and  applied  to  the  fences*. 
It  is  a  little  thing,  I  know,  gentlemen  ;  and  perhap? 
I  lay  too  much  stress  upon  it.  But  I  cannot  havo 
any  rational  confidence  in  a  man  who  will  steal  even 
a  pin.  I  have  made  this  communication  from  a 
sense  of  duty ;  the  board  can  now  .act  as  it  thinks 
best.  But  I  cannot  vote  to  place  Mr.  Elliotson  in 
a  position  where  so  much  is  at  stake/' 

After  an  hour's  discussion,  in  which  three  or  four 
members  of  the  board  spoke  strongly  in  favour  of 
Mr.  Elliotson,  and  offered  to  go  his  security  in 
double  the  amount  required  for  the  cashier,  it  was 
voted  to  let  the  choice  of  that  officer  lie  over  for  ft 
day,  that  there  might  be  time  for  reflection. 

Mr.  Elliotson  sat  at  his  window,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  building  where  the  directors  were  in 
session^  his  heart  beating  with  an  uneasy  motion. 
He  had  been  seated  thus  for  nearly  two  hours,  and 
was  beginning  to  grow  restless  with  impatience, 
when  he  saw  the  door  open,  and  the  gentlemen  who 
seemed  to  him  to  hold  his  fate  in  their  hands  slowly 


36  A   LIFE    LESSON. 


emerge,  and  move,  in  little  groups,  lingeringly  down 
the  street.  Of  these,  two,  who  were  among  his 
warmest  friends,  approached  his  house.  Now  his 
heart  became  almost  still,  and  he  experienced  a 
choking  sensation.  A  few  minutes  would  decide 
his  fate.  What  was  to  be  that  fate  ?  He  scarcely 
dared  hope  for  the  best,  and  shrank  from  contem- 
plating the  worst.  The  two  friends  paused  a  short 
distance  from  his  house,  and  stood  for  some  minutes 
in  earnest  conversation.  This  was  looked  upon  as  a 
bad  omen ;  the  bearers  of  good  news  would  not 
thus  pause  and  linger.  The  poor  man's  suspense 
became  terrible.  At  length  the  men  separated,  and 
one  of  them  came  towards  his  house  with  a  grave 
and  deliberate  step.  From  the  window,  Mr.  Elliot- 
Hon  could  see  his  face.  It  wore  a  thoughtful,  sober 
expression.  His  heart  ceased  to  beat  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, and  then  fluttered  on  wildly.  At  length  the 
man's  knock  was  heard  at  the  door.  Elliotson  had 
scarcely  strength  to  open  it,  and  when  he  did  so,  he 
stood  with  his  knees  smiting  against  each  other, 
looking  into  his  friend's  face  without  the  power  of 
utterance.  To  relieve  this  suspense,  which  he  saw 
to  be  very  great,  the  friend  said — 

"  There  has  been  no  election  of  cashier  yet." 

Elliotson  leaned  against  the  door  for  support. 

"None?     Why  not?"  he  was  able  to  ask. 

"I  will  tell  you/' 

"  Walk  into  the  parlour/'  Elliotson  had  now  pre- 


A   LIFE  LESSON.  37 


Hence  of  mind  to  say,  and  he  stepped  baejfc  while  the 
director  entered.     When  alone,  the  latter  said, 

"I  regret  to  say,  that  an  unexpected  objection 
was  made  by  a  member  of  the  board,  which  would 
have  defeated  your  election,  had  a  ballot  taken  place. 
I  therefore  moved  to  have  the  election  for  cashier 
postponed  until  to-morrow;  and  I  have  come  to 
talk  to  you  about  this  objection." 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Elliotson  in  a  husky 
voice. 

"It  touches  your  character;  is,  in  fact,  a  charge 
against  your  integrity  as  a  man." 

Philip  Elliotson  drew  himself  up  calmly,  while 
his  eye  became  bright  and  steady,  and  his  lips  arched i 
and  firm. 

"  I  am  ready  to  meet  all  such  charges,"  he  said, 
with  much  dignity  of  manner.     "  I  know  nofc  a*- 
single  act  of  my  life  that  I  would  fear  to  have  can- 
vassed.    What  is  the  allegation  ?" 

"  Some  five  or  six  years  ago,  there  was  an  addition 
built  to  this  house  ?"  said  the  director. 

"  There  was." 

"  Do  you  remember  the  fact  that  a  load  of  lime 
was  thrown  down,  late  one  afternoon,  at  your  back 
gate." 

Mr.  Elliotson  thought  for  a  moment,  and  then, 
said — 

(*  Yes,  I  remember  it  very  well." 

"  Do  you  likewise  remember  taking  two  or  three 

IX.-4 


38  A   LIFE  LESSON. 


pieces  of  that  lime  for  your  own  use,  and  concealing 
them  in  an  out-house  ?" 

"  I  do."  The  blood  mounted  to  the  cheek  of  Mr. 
Elliotson. 

"  You  were  seen  to  do  this :  and  it  is  now  brought 
forward  against  you,  and  urged  as  a  reason  why  you 
should  not  be  given  the  appointment  of  cashier/' 

Mr.  Elliotson  seemed  stunned  for  a  few  moments. 
He  leaned  his  head  down  upon  a  table,  and  sat 
almost  motionless  for  nearly  a  minute,  while  his 
friend  looked  on  with  grief.  When  he  at  length 
raised  his  head,  his  face  was  pale  but  calm. 

"  I  am,  of  course,  charged  with  being  a  dishonest 
man,"  he  said,  in  a  firm  voice. 

"That  is  the  inference  drawn  from  this  act." 

Mr.  Elliotson  arose,  and  going  to  his  secretary, 
took  therefrom  two  account-books.  One  of  these  he 
opened,  and,  turning  to  an  account,  laid  it  on  the 
table  before  the  director,  saying,  as  he  did  so, 

"  The  plasterer  who  finished  the  addition  made 
by  my  landlord  to  this  house  was  named  Eldred. 
He  dealt  at  my  store,  and  settled  his  accounts  once 
in  three  months.  The  addition  was  made  in  June, 
18 — .  On  the  tenth  of  July,  in  the  same  year, 
you  see,  there  is  a  credit  to  his  account  of  fifteen 
cents.  Now  I  will  show  you  the  day-book  entry." 

The  day-book  was  opened,  when  the  entry  stood 
thus:— 

"Jamee  Eldred,  Gr:   By  lime  .used  for  white- 


A   LIFE  LESSON.  39 


washing  at  thef  time  he  was  plastering  my  house — 
tifteen  cents/' 

"  I  took  the  lime/'  said  Elliotson,  after  he  had 
exhibited  this  entry,  "thoughtlessly.  It  was  not 
my  property,  and  I  had  no  right  to  it.  But  I  did 
not  reflect  at  the  time.  About  a  month  afterwards, 
a  thought  of  what  I  had  done  flashed  across  my 
mind,  and  startled  me.  I  saw  that  I  had  been 
guilty  of  taking  another's  property  for  my  own  use, 
and  immediately  made  this  entry.  In  settlement, 
I  pointed  out  the  matter  to  Eldred,  and  he  said  it 
was  of  no  consequence  whatever,  that  I  was  welcome 
to  the  lime,  and  double  as  much  more.  He  did 
not  wish  the  deduction  made  from  his  account :  but 
I  insisted  on  its  being  done.  If  you  will  see  him, 
he  will  show  you  this  credit  on  the  bill  I  then  ren- 
dered." 

"  May  I  have  these  books  at  the  meeting  of  di- 
rectors to-morrow  ?"  eagerly  asked  the  friend,  who 
was  trembling  with  delight. 

"Certainly.  It  is  but  just  that  this  charge 
should  be  fully  refuted." 

"  Then  you  may  set  your  heart  at  rest  about  the 
cashiership.  You  will  certainly  get  the  appoint- 
ment. But  for  this  matter,  you  would  have  received 
every  vote  to-day,  on  the  first  balloting." 

When  the  directors  met  on  the  next  day,  and  the 
books  of  Mr.  Elliotson  were  laid  open  at  the  entry 
just  mentioned,  Mr.  Gage  was  confounded. 


40  A   LIFE   LESSON. 


"  I  have  not  a  word  more  to  say/'  he  remarked. 
"  Mr.  Elliotson  has  my  vote.  It  grieves  me  to  think 
that  I  have  wronged  so  upright  a  man." 

The  vote  was  at  once  taken,  and  Elliotson  elected 
unanimously  to  the  office  of  cashier  at  a  salary  of 
twelve  hundred  dollars  a  year. 

About  a  year  after  this  happy  change  in  Mr.  El- 
liotson's  external  circumstances,  Herbert,  the  store- 
keeper who  had  obtained  nearly  the  whole  of  his 
country  custom,  and  accumulated  quite  a  handsome 
little  property,  died,  and  his  widow  attempted,  by 
means  of  a  clerk,  to  carry  on  the  business.  But, 
in  the  course  of  a  few  months,  her  friends  advised 
her  to  sell  out  and  be  content  with  the  amount  of 
property  left  to  her  by  her  husband,  which  was 
enough  for  her  support.  As  soon  as  this  fact  be- 
came known  to  Mr.  G-age,  the  carpenter,  whose  mind 
had  never  felt  easy  about  Mr.  Elliotson,  he  called 
upon  the  latter,  and  said  to  him,  after  mentioning 
the  fact  that  Mrs.  Herbert  wished  to  sell  out, 

"  There  is  a  good  chance  for  you,  and  you  ought 
to  embrace  it.  You  understand  the  business,  and 
can  make  by  it  more  than  double  what  you  are  now 
receiving." 

But  Elliotson  shook  his  head. 

f<  Depend  upon  it,  you  ought  not  to  let  this  oppor- 
tunity pass.  I  know  that  you  can  have  all  my  brother's 
consignments  again,  for  he  has  told  me  that  he  was 
sorry  that  he  had  ever  taken  them  out  of  your  hands. 


A  LIFE  LESSON.  41 


And  J  have  no  doubt  but  that  you  can  retain  every 
one  of  Herbert's  regular  customers." 

"  Perhaps  I  might.  I  believe  with  you  that  the 
opportunity  is  a  very  good  one.  But  it  is  not  in 
my  power  to  embrace  it." 

«  Why  ?" 

"  Capital  is  required,  and  I  have  nothing  but  my 
salary." 

"  How  much  will  be  needed  ?" 

"  At  least  four  or  five  thousand  dollars ;  besides 
A  credit  in  purchasing  out  the  stock  and  good-will 
of  the  store." 

"Both  of  these,  I  think,  can  be  supplied." 

Elliotson  shook  his  head  again. 

"  If  I  will  get  you  the  money  and  the  credit  you 
need,  will  you  take  the  store  ?"  asked  Gage. 

"  Certainly  I  will,"  was  replied. 

"Then  you  may  consider  the  thing  as  settled." 

And  it  was  settled.  Mr.  Elliotson  took  the  store, 
and  went  on  with  the  business,  quite  as  successfully 
as  it  had  been  conducted  by  the  former  owner.  He 
is  now  in  excellent  circumstances.  But  there  are 
two  things  that  he  cannot  understand,  and  which 
puzzle  him  whenever  he  thinks  about  them.  One 
is,  the  cause  of  the  sudden  reverse  in  his  fortunes 
that  visited  him  so  strangely,  and  the  other  is  the 
unexpected  offer  of  Mr.  Gage  to  put  him  in  business 
again,  with  as  much  capital  and  as  large  a  credit  as 
ho  needed.  He  often  sits  and  ponders  upon  these 

4* 


UNFADING   FLOWERS. 


two  circumstances,  but  they  still  remain  shrouded 
in  mystery.  Mr.  Gage  is  satisfied  with  making  resti- 
tution in  his  own  way,  without  exposing  the  part 
he  took  in  ruining  the  merchant.  He  never  alluded 
to  the  subject,  except  to  his  brother  and  to  the 
board  of  directors,  and  they  felt  it  to  be  impe- 
rative on  them  to  keep  the  whole  thing  a  profound 
secret. 


UNFADING  FLOWERS. 


THIRTY  years  ago,  a  small,  barefooted  boy  paused 
to  admire  the  flowers  in  a  well-cultivated  garden. 
The  child  was  an  orphan,  and  had  already  felt  how 
hard  was  an  orphan's  lot.  The  owner  of  the  garden, 
who  was  trimming  a  border,  noticed  the  lad  and 
spoke  kindly  to  him. 

u  Do  you  love  flowers?7'  said  he. 

The  boy  replied,  "  Oh,  yes.  We  used  to  have 
such  beautiful  flowers  in  our  garden/' 

The  man  laid  down  his  knife,  and,  gathering  a  few 
flowers,  took  them  to  the  fence,  through  the  panels 
of  which  the  boy  was  looking,  and  handed  them  to 
him,  saying,  as  he  did  so,  "  Here's  a  little  bunch 
for  you." 

A  flush  wsnt  over  the  child's  face  as  he  took  the 


UNFADING   FLOWERS.  43 


flowers.  He  did  not  make  any  reply,  but  in  hi? 
large  eyes,  as  he  lifted  them  to  the  face  of  the  man, 
was  an  expression  of  thankfulness,  to  be  read  as 
plainly  as  words  in  a  book. 

The  act  on  the  part  of  the  man  was  one  of  spon- 
taneous kindness,  and  scarcely  thought  of  again,  but 
by  the  child  it  was  never  forgotten. 

Years  went  by,  and  through  toil,  privation,  and 
suffering,  both  in  body  and  mind,  the  boy  grew  up 
to  manhood.  From  ordeals  like  this  come  forth  our 
most  effective  men.  If  kept  from  vicious  associates, 
the  lad  of  feeling  and  mental  activity  becomes  am- 
bitious, and  rises  in  society  above  the  common  level. 
So  it  proved  in  the  case  of  this  orphan  boy ;  he  had 
but  few  advantages  of  education,  but  such  as  were 
afforded  were  all  improved.  It  happened  that  his 
lot  was  cast  in  a  printing-office,  and  the  young  com- 
positor soon  became  interested  in  his  work.  He 
did  not  set  the  types  as  a  mere  mechanic,  but  went 
beyond  the  duties  of  his  calling,  entering  into  the 
ideas  to  which  he  was  giving  verbal  expression,  and 
making  them  his  own.  At  twenty-one,  he  was  a 
young  man  of  more  than  ordinary  intelligence  and 
force  of  character.  At  thirty-five,  he  was  the  con- 
ductor of  a  widely-circulated  and  profitable  news- 
paper, and,  as  a  man,  respected  and  esteemed  by 
all  who  knew  him. 

During  the  earnest  struggle  that  all  men  enter 
into  who  are  ambitious  to  rise  in  the  world,  tht> 


44  UNFADING   FLOWERS. 


thoughts  do  not  often  go  back  and  rest  meditatively 
upon  the  earlier  time  of  life.  But  after  success  has 
crowned  each  well-directed  effort,  und  the  gaining 
of  a  desired  position  no  longer  remains  a  subject  of 
doubt,  the  mind  often  brings  up  from  the  far-off 
past  most  vivid  recollections  of  incidents  and  im- 
pressions that  were  painful  or  pleasurable  at  the 
time,  and  which  are  now  seen  to  have  an  influence, 
more  or  less  decided,  upon  the  whole  after-life.  In 
this  state  of  reflection  sat  one  day  the  man  whom 
we  have  introduced.  After  musing  a  long  time, 
deeply  abstracted,  he  took  his  pen  and  wrote  hastily, 
and  these  were  the  sentences  he  traced  upon  the 
paper  that  lay  before  him : — 

"  How  indelibly  does  a  little  act  of  kindness,  per- 
formed at  the  right  moment,  impress  itself  upon  the 
mind.  We  meet,  as  we  pass  through  the  world,  so 
much  of  rude  selfishness,  that  we  guard  ourselves 
against  it,  and  scarcely  feel  its  effects ;  but  sponta- 
neous kindness  comes  so  rarely,  that  we  are  sur- 
prised when  it  appears,  and  delighted  and  refreshed 
as  by  the  perfume  of  flowers  in  the  dreary  winter. 
When  we  were  a  small  boy,  an  orphan,  and  with  a 
memory  of  a  home  for  ever  lost,  too  vivid  in  our 
young  heart,  a  man  into  whose  beautiful  garden  we 
stood  looking,  pulled  a  few  flowers  and  handed  them 
through  the  fence,  speaking  a  kind  word  as  he  did 
BO.  He  did  not  know,  and  perhaps  never  will  know, 
how  deeply  we  were  touched  by  this  act.  From  a 


UNFADING   FLOWERS.  45 


little  boy  we  loved  flowers,  and  ere  that  heaviest 
affliction  a  child  ever  knows — loss  of  parents — fell 
upon  us,  we  almost  lived  among  them.  But  death 
separated  between  us  and  all  those  tender  associa 
tions  and  affections  that,  to  the  hearts  of  children,  are 
like  dew  to  the  tender  grass;  we  entered  the  dwell- 
ing of  the  stranger,  and  were  treated  henceforth  as 
if  we  had,  or  ought  to  have  no  feelings,  no  hopes,  no 
weaknesses.  The  harsh  command  came  daily  to  our 
ears ;  and  not  even  for  work  well  done,  or  faithful 
service,  were  we  cheered  by  words  of  commendation. 
"  One  day — we  were  not  more  than  eleven  years 
old — something  turned  our  thoughts  back  upon  the 
earlier  and  happier  time  when  we  had  a  true  home, 
and  were  loved  and  cared  for.  We  were  once  more 
in  the  garden  and  among  the  sweet  blossoms,  as  of 
old,  and  the  mother  on  whose  bosom  we  had  slept, 
sat  under  the  grape-arbour,  and  we  filled  her  lap 
with  flowers.  There  was  a  smile  of  love  on  her  face, 
and  her  lips  were  parting  with  some  kind  word  of 
affection,  when,  to  scatter  into  nothing  these  dear 
images  of  the  lonely  boy,  came  the  sharp  command 
of  a  master,  and  in  obedience  we  started  forth  to 
perform  some  needed  service.  Our  way  was  by  the 
garden  of  which  we  have  spoken;  and  it  was  on  this 
occasion,  and  while  the  suddenly  dissipated  image 
of  our  mother  among  the  flowers  was  re-forming 
itself  in  our  young  imagination,  that  the  incident  to 
which  we  huve  alluded  occurred.  We  can  never 


46  UNFADING   FLOWERS. 


forget  tho  grateful  perfume  of  those  flowers,  nor  the 
strength  and  comfort  which  the  kind  words  and 
manner  of  the  giver  imparted  to  our  fainting  spirits. 
We  took  them  home,  kept  them  fresh  as  long  as 
water  would  preserve  their  life  and  beauty;  and 
when  they  faded,  and  the  leaves  fell,  pale  and  with- 
ered, upon  the  ground,  we  grieved  for  their  loss  as 
if  a  real  friend  had  been  taken  away. 

"  It  is  a  long,  long  time  since  that  incident  occur- 
red ;  but  the  flowers  which  there  sprang  up  in  our 
bosom  are  fresh  and  beautiful  still :  they  have 
neither  faded  nor  withered — they  cannot,  they  are 
unfading  flowers.  We  never  looked  upon  the  man 
that  gave  them  to  us,  that  our  heart  did  not  warm 
toward  him.  Twenty  years  ago,  we  lost  sight  of  him; 
but  if  still  among  the  dwellers  of  the  earth,  and  in 
need  of  a  friend,  we  should  divide  with  him  our  last 
morsel." 

An  old  man,  with  hair  whitened  by  the  snows  of 
many  winters,  was  sitting  in  a  room  that  was  poorly 
supplied  with  furniture,  his  head  bowed,  and  his 
gaze  cast  dreamily  on  the  floor.  A  pale  young  girl 
came  in  while  he  sat  thus  musing.  Lifting  his  eyes 
to  her  face,  he  said,  while  he  tried  to  look  cheerful, 
u  Ellen,  dear,  you  must  not  go  out  to-day." 

"  I  feel  a  great  deal  better,  grandpa,"  replied  the 
girl,  forcing  a  smile.  "  I  am  able  to  go  to  work 
again." 


UNFADING   FLOWERS.  47 


"  No,  child,  you  are  not/'  said  the  old  man,  firm- 
ly; "and  you  must  not  think  of  such  a  thing." 

"Don't  be  so  positive,  grandpa."  And  as  she 
uttered  this  little  sentence  in  a  half-playful  voice, 
she  laid  her  hand  among  the  thin  gray  locks  on  the 
old  man's  head,  and  smoothed  them  caressingly. 
"  You  know  that  I  must  not  be  idle." 

"  Wait,  child,  until  your  strength  returns." 

"  Our  wants  will  not  wait,  grandpa."  As  the 
girl  said  this,  her  face  became  sober.  The  old 
man's  eyes  again  fell  to  the  floor,  and  a  heavy  sigh 
came  from  his  bosom. 

"  I  will  be  very  careful,  and  not  overwork  my- 
self again,"  resumed  Ellen,  after  a  pause 

"  You  must  not  go  to-day,"  said  the  old  man, 
arousing  himself.  "It  is  murder.  Wait  at  least 
until  to-morrow.  You  will  be  stronger  then." 

"  If  I  don't  go  back,  I  may  lose  my  place.  You 
know  that  I  have  been  at  home  for  three  days. 
Work  will  not  wait.  The  last  time  I  was  kept  away 
by  sickness,  a  customer  was  disappointed,  and  there 
was  a  good  deal  of  trouble  about  it." 

Another  sigh  came  heavily  from  the  old  man's 
heart. 

"  I  will  go,"  said  the  girl.  "  Perhaps  they  will 
let  me  off  for  a  day  longer.  If  so,  I  will  come  back; 
for  I  must  not  lose  the  place/' 

No  further  resistance  was  made  by  the  old  man, 
In  a  little  time,  he  was  alone.  She  had  gone  to 


48  UNFADING   FLOWERS. 


work.     Her  employers  would  not  let  her  go  away 
feeble  as  she  was,  without  a  forfeiture  of  her  place. 

About  midday,  finding  that  Ellen  did  not  come 
back,  the  old  man,  after  taking  some  food,  went  out. 

The  pressure  of  seventy  winters  was  upon  him, 
and  his  steps  were  slow  and  carefully  taken. 

"  I  must  get  something  to  do.  I  can  work 
still,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  as  he  moved  along  the 
streets.  "  The  dear  child  is  killing  herself,  and  all 
for  me." 

But  what  could  he  do  ?  Who  wanted  the  services 
of  an  old  man,  like  him,  whose  mind  had  lost  its 
clearness,  whose  step  faltered,  and  whose  hand  was 
no  longer  steady  ?  In  vain  he  made  application  for 
employment.  Younger  and  more  vigorous  men  filled 
all  the  places,  and  he  was  pushed  aside.  Dis- 
couraged and  drooping  in  spirit,  he  went  back  to 
his  home,  there  to  wait  the  fall  of  evening,  which 
was  to  bring  the  return  of  the  only  being  left  on  earth 
to  love  him.  At  nightfall,  Ellen  came  in.  Her  face, 
so  pale  in  the  morning,  was  now  slightly  flushed ;  and 
her  eyes  were  brighter  than  when  she  went  out. 
The  grandfather  was  not  deceived  by  this ;  he  knew 
it  to  be  a  sign  of  disease.  He  took  her  hand — it 
was  hot — and  when  he  stooped  to  kiss  her  gentle 
lips,  he  found  them  burning  with  fever. 

"  Ellen,  my  child,  why  did  you  go  to  work  to-day  ? 
I  knew  it  would  make  you  sick,"  said  the  old  man 
in  a  voice  of  anguish. 


UNFADING   FLOWERS.  *  49 


Ellen  tried  to  smile,  and  not  appear  so  very  ill; 
but  nature  was  too  much  oppressed. 

"  I  have  brought  home  some  work,  and  will  not 
go  out  to-morrow/'  she  remarked.  "  I  think  the  walk 
fatigued  me  more  than  any  thing  else.  I  shall  be 
better  after  a  good  night's  sleep." 

But  the  girl's  hopes  failed  her.  The  morning 
found  her  so  weak  that  she  could  not  rise  from  her 
bed;  and  when  the  grandfather  came  into  her  room  to 
learn  how  she  passed  the  night,  he  found  her  weep- 
ing on  her  pillow.  She  had  endeavoured  to  get  up, 
but  her  head,  which  was  aching  terribly,  grew  dizzy, 
and  she  fell  back,  under  a  despairing  consciousness 
that  her  strength  was  gone. 

The  day  passed,  but  Ellen  did  not  grow  better. 
The  fever  still  kept  her  body  prostrate.  Once  or 
twice,  when  her  grandfather  was  out  of  the  room, 
she  took  up  the  work  she  had  brought  home,  and 
tried  to  do  some  of  it  while  sitting  up  in  bed. 
But  ere  a  minute  had  passed,  she  became  faint, 
while  all  grew  dark  around  her.  She  was  no  better 
when  night  came.  If  her  mind  could  have  rested — 
if  she  had  been  free  from  anxious  and  distressing 
thoughts,  nature  would  have  had  power  to  react;  but, 
as  it  was,  the  pressure  was  too  great.  She  could  not 
forget  that  they  had  scarcely  so  much  as  a  dollar 
left,  and  that  her  old  grandfather  was  too  feeble  to 
work.  Upon  her  rested  all  the  burden  of  their 
support,  and  she  was  helpless. 

IX.— 5 


60  UNFADING  FLOWERS. 


The  next  morning,  Ellen  was  better.  She  could 
sit  up  without  feeling  dizzy,  although  her  head  still 
ached,  and  the  fever  had  only  slightly  abated.  But 
the  old  man  would  not  permit  her  to  leave  her  bed, 
though  she  begged  him  earnestly  to  let  her  do  so. 

The  bundle  of  work  that  Ellen  had  brought  home 
was  wrapped  in  a  newspaper,  and  this  her  grandfather 
took  up  to  read,  several  times  during  the  day. 

"  This  is  Mr.  T 's  newspaper,"  said  he,  as  he 

opened  it  and  saw  the  title.  "  I  knew  T when 

he  was  a  poor  orphan  boy ;  but  of  course  he  has  for- 
gotten me.  He  has  prospered  wonderfully." 

And  then  his  eyes  went  along  the  columns  of  the 
paper,  and  he  read  aloud  to  Ellen  such  things  ;ts 
lie  thought  would  interest  her.  Among  others,  was 
a  reminiscence  by  the  editor — the  same  that  we  have 
just  given.  The  old  man's  voice  faltered  as  he 
read.  The  little  incident,  so  feelingly  described,  had 
long  since  been  hidden  in  his  memory,  under  the 
gathering  dust  of  time.  But  now  the  dust  was  swept 
away,  and  he  saw  his  own  beautiful  garden.  He 
was  in  it,  and  among  the  flowers;  and  wistfully 
looking  through  the  fence,  stood  the  orphan  boy. 
He  remembered  that  he  felt  pity  for  him,  and  he  re- 
membered, as  if  it  were  but  yesterday,  though  thirty 
years  had  intervened,  the  light  that  went  over  the 
child's  face  as  he  handed  him  a  few  flowers,  that 
were  to  fade  and  wither  in  a  day. 

Yes,  the  old  man's  voice  faltered  while  he  read; 


UNFADING  FLOWERS.  51 


and  when  he  came  to  the  last  sentence,  the  paper 
dropped  upon  the  floor,  and,  clasping  his  hands 
together,  he  lifted  his  dim  eyes  upward,  while  lib 
lips  moved  in  whispered  words  of  thankfulness. 

"  What  ails  you,  grandpa  V  asked  Ellen  in  sur- 
prise. But  the  old  man  did  not  seem  to  hear  her  voice. 

"  Dear  grandpa/'  repeated  the  girl,  "why  do  you 
look  so  strangely?"  She  had  risen  in  bed, and  was 
bending  toward  him. 

"Ellen,  my  child,"  said  the  old  man,  a  light 
breaking  over  his  countenance  as  though  a  sunbeam 
had  suddenly  come  into  the  room,  "  it  was  your  old 
grandfather  gave  the  flowers  to  that  poor  little  boy. 
Did  you  hear  what  he  said  ?  he  would  divide  his  last 
morsel." 

The  old  man  moved  about  the  room  with  his  un- 
steady steps,  talking  in  a  wandering  way — so  over- 
joyed at  the  prospect  of  relief  for  his  child,  that  he 
was  nearly  beside  himself.  But  there  yet  lingered 
some  embers  of  pride  in  his  heart;  and  from  these 
the  ashes  were  blown  away,  and  they  became  bright 
and  glowing.  The  thought  of  asking  a  favour  for 
the  return  of  that  little  act,  which  was  to  him  at  the 
time  a  pleasure,  came  with  a  feeling  of  reluctance. 
But  when  he  looked  at  the  pale  young  girl,  with  eyes 
closed  and  her  face  half  buried  in  the  pillow,  he  mur- 
mured to  himself,  "It  is  for  you — for  you!"  and, 
taking  up  his  staff,  went  tottering  into  the  open  air. 

The  editor  was  sitting  in  his  office  writing,  when 


62  UNFADING   FLOWERS. 


he  heard  the  door  open,  and,  turning,  he  saw  before 
him  an  old  man  with  bent  form  and  snowy  head. 
Something  in  the  visitor's  countenance  struck  him 
as  familiar,  but  he  did  not  recognise  him  as  one  he 
had  seen  before. 

"  Is  Mr.  T in?"  asked  the  old  man. 

"  My  name  is  T ,"  replied  the  editor. 

"  You  ?"  There  was  a  slight  expression  of  sur- 
prise in  the  old  man's  voice. 

"  Yes,  I  am  T ,  my  friend/7  was  kindly  said. 

"  Can  I  do  any  thing  for  you?  Take  the  chair/7 

The  offered  seat  was  accepted;  and  as  the  old 
man  sank  into  it,  his  countenance  and  manner  be- 
trayed his  emotion. 

"  I  have  come/'  and  his  voice  was  unsteady,  "  to 
do  what  I  could  not  do  for  myself  alone;  but  I  can- 
not see  my  poor,  sick  grandchild  wear  out  and  die 
under  the  weight  of  burdens  that  that  are  too  heavy 
to  be  borne.  For  her  sake,  I  have  conquered  my 
pride." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  G-o  on,"  said  T ,  who  was  looking  at  the 

old  man  earnestly,  and  endeavouring  to  fix  his  iden- 
tity. 

"  You  don't  know  me?" 

"  Your  face  is  not  entirely  strange,"  said  1  . 

fi  It  must  have  been  a  long  time  since  we  met." 

"  Long?  Oh,  yes  !  it  is  a  long,  long  time.  You 
were  a  boy,  and  I  unbent  by  age." 


UNFADING   FLOWERS.  53 


"  Markland !"  exclaimed  T- ,  with  sudden 

energy,  springing  to  his  feet  as  the  truth  flashed 
upon  him.  "  Say,  is  it  not  so?" 

"  My  name  is  Markland." 

"And  do  we  meet  thus  again?"  said  T ,  with 

emotion,  as  he  grasped  the  old  man's  hand.  "Ah, 
sir!  I  have  never  forgotten  you.  When  a  sad- 
hearted  boy,  you  spoke  to  me  kindly ;  and  the  words 
comforted  me,  when  I  had  no  other  comfort.  That 
bunch  of  flowers  you  gave  me — you  remember  it,  no 
doubt — is  still  fresh  in  my  heart :  not  a  leaf  or 
petal  has  faded ;  they  are  as  bright  and  green,  and 
full  of  perfume,  as  when  I  first  hid  them  there; 
and  there  they  will  bloom  for  ever,  the  unfading 
flowers  of  gratitude.  I  am  glad  you  have  come, 
though  grieved  that  your  declining  years  are  made 
heavier  by  misfortune.  I  have  enough  and  to 
spare." 

"  I  have  not  come  for  charity,"  returned  Mark- 
land.  "  I  have  hands  that  would  not  be  idle, 
though  it  is  but  little  they  can  accomplish." 

"  Be  not  troubled  on  that  account,  my  friend," 
was  kindly  answered.  ts  I  will  find  something  for 
you  to  do;  but  first  tell  me  about  yourself." 

Thus  encouraged,  the  old  man  told  his  story.  It 
was  the  common  story  of  the  loss  of  property  and 
friends,  and  the  approach  of  want  with  declining 
years.  T saw  that  pride  and  native  independ- 
ence was  still  strong  in  Markland' s  bosom,  feeble 
6* 


54  UNFADING   FLOWERS. 


as  he  was,  and  really  unable  to  enter  upon  any 
serious  employment ;  and  his  first  impression  was  to 
save  his  feelings,  at  the  same  time  that  he  extended 
to  him  entire  and  permanent  relief.  This  he  found 
no  difficulty  in  doing,  and  the  old  man  was  soon  after 
placed  in  a  situation  where  but  little  application  was 
necessary,  while  the  income  was  all-sufficient  for  the 
comfortable  support  of  himself  and  grandchild. 

The  flowers  offered  with  a  purely  humane  feeling 
proved  to  be  fadeless  flowers ;  and  their  beauty  and 
perfume  came  back  to  the  sense  of  the  giver,  when 
all  other  flowers  were  dead  and  dying  on  his  dark 
and  dreary  way. 


THREE   SCENES  IN  THE   LIFE  OF  A 
CONSUMPTIVE. 


SCENE  FIRST. 

"  You  have  no  right  to  abuse  your  health,  Mar- 
garet/' said  Mrs.  Ellis  to  her  daughter,  a  tall,  deli- 
cately-formed girl,  whose  narrow  chest,  long  and 
small  neck,  slender  limbs,  and  pure,  transparent 
skin,  indicated  a  constitution  highly  susceptible  to 
pulmonary  irritations.  The  mother  spoke  in  a  de- 
cided voice,  and  with  some  sternness  of  manner. 

"  I  suppose  I  may  do  with  myself  as  I  please/' 
replied  the  daughter,  in  a  tone  of  levity. 

"  Not  so,  Margaret/' 

"  If  I  lose  my  health,  I  have  only  to  suffer  for  it 
myself;  no  one  else  will  have  to  bear  the  pain  of 
my  indiscretion,  as  you  call  it.  Isn't  this  so?" 

"  Do  you  really  think  this?"  asked  the  mother. 

"  Certainly  I  do.  Whatever  pain  I  suffer  is  my 
own — not  another's.  Can  another  feel  my  headache, 
or  be  affected  with  the  fever  that  lays  me  upon  a 
bed  of  sickness?" 

"  Margaret/'  replied  the  mother,  less  sternly  than 

56 


56  THREE   SCENES   IN   THE 


she  had  at  first  spoken,  but  with  equal  seriousness 
of  manner,  "  I  can  hardly  believe  you  in  earnest  in 
what  you  say.  You  are  now  a  woman,  capable  of 
reflection,  and  ought  to  be  able  to  see,  in  a  moment, 
that  you  cannot  be  sick  for  an  hour  without  affect- 
ing others/' 

"  In  what  way  ?" 

"  Can  you  not  see  for  yourself?" 

"  I  certainly  cannot." 

"  If  you  were  now  sick,  instead  of  being  in  good 
health,  do  you  not  suppose  that  I  would  feel  anxious 
and  troubled  on  your  account  ?" 

"  I  suppose  you  would.  Still,  you  needn't  feel 
so,  unless  from  choice ;  the  actual  pain  I  suffered 
couldn't  affect  you." 

"  If  I  were  sick,  could  you  help  feeling  anxious? 
Would  this  depend  upon  choice?" 

"  No,  I  presume  not." 

"  And  as  little  would  my  anxiety  depend  upon 
choice,  as  you  must  see,  on  a  moment's  reflection; 
but  the  way  in  which  the  ill-health  of  any  one  affects 
others  is  far  more  serious  than  this.  Society  is 
bound  together  by  the  law  of  reciprocal  uses :  every- 
thing we  do  has  some  reference  to  others.  In  fact, 
there  is  no  act  of  our  lives  that  does  not,  in  some 
way,  impress  itself  upon  those  around  us.  To  each 
of  us  is  given  some  talent,  the  exercise  of  which  is 
designed  to  promote  the  common  welfare.  111- 
healtii  must,  of  course;  prevent  the  proper  exercise 


LIFE   OP   A   CONSUMPTIVE.  57 


D£  this  talent.  You  can  see,  from  this,  that  we  have 
QO  right  to  abuse  our  health,  for,  if  we  do  so,  we 
cannot  properly  discharge  the  duties  we  owe  to 
others/' 

The  thoughtless  girl  met  this  by  saying,  with  a 
lightness  of  manner  that  chilled  her  mother's  feel- 
ings— 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  I  don't  profess  to  be  governed 
by  motives  of  good  to  others.  I  have  not  attained 
so  perfect  a  state  yet,  and  am  afraid  I  never  shall ; 
it  is  about  as  much  as  I  can  do  to  think  of  myself/' 

"  The  time  may  come,  Margaret,"  replied  the 
mother  to  this,  "  when  you  will  feel  differently — 
when  you  may  desire  the  good  of  others  with  an 
intense  desire,  and  not  be  able,  from  ill-health,  to 
secure  it.  To  see  those  we  love  suffering  privations 
from  our  inability  to  do  for  them  what  they  need, 
and  for  which  they  can  depend  on  none  other,  is  a 
bitter  thing;  and  that  you  may  be  spared  this,  is 
one  of  my  reasons  for  urging  you  now  to  regard 
your  health/' 

"  I  am  not  much  afraid  but  that  I  shall  be  able  to 
do  all  that,  justice  can  require  me  to  do  for  others," 
Margaret  answered.  "  My  health  is  good  enough 
now,  except  a  little  cold,  that  will  soon  pass  off,  and 
I  know  of  no  reason  why  I  should  not  remain  in  as 
good  health  for  many  years.  I  am  not  aware  that 
I  abuse  myself  very  much/' 

'*  You  are  perhaps  aware  that  ycu  inherit  a  pre- 


58  THREE    SCENES   IN    THE 


disposition  to  consumption,  and  that,  from  this  cir- 
cumstance, a  slight  cold  is  always  a  serious  matter, 
and  should  be  treated  as  such/' 

"  If  I  have  got/  to  die  of  consumption,  there  is 
no  help  for  it,  I  suppose/'  returned  the  daughter. 
"  Taking  care  of  slight  colds  is  not  going  to  save 
me." 

"  That  is  a  mistake,  which  I  hope  you  will  permit 
me  at  once  to  correct.  Most  lung-diseases,  when 
once  excited,  prove  incurable.  No  one  is  born  with 
consumption,  but  only  with  a  predisposition  to  this 
fatal  disease,  in  a  high>susceptibility  to  inflammation 
of  the  throat  and  ch^st.  There  are  but  few  cases  in 
which  this  predisposition  is  so  great  as  to  be  affected 
by  the  commo^atmospi^eric  changes,  if  the  indivi- 
dual pays  particular  regard  to  health;  but  if  a  cold, 
unfortunateljpf  be  taken,  even  if  afterwards  cured, 
the  predisposition  to  inflammation  is  increased. 
Should  the  cold  be  neglected,  the  inflammation  may 
become  chronic  or^permaneu|b,  and  then  life  is  in- 
evitably shortened  five,  ten;  or  it  may  be  more  than 
twenty  years." 

"  I  have  colds  often ;  but  they  get  well,  without 
the  serious  consequences  of  which  you  speak/' 

"  You  never  had  a  cold,  Margaret/'  said  Mrs. 
Ellis,  with  much  earnestness,  "that  did  not  injure 
you,  in  an  increased  liability  to  take  cold  which  it 
entailed.  I  have  noticed  this :  you  take  cold  now 
easier  than  you  did  a  year  ago." 


LIFE   OF  A   CONSUMPTIVE.  59 


"  I  don't  know  that  I  do." 

u  I  am  sure  of  it ;  my  anxiety  makes  me  observ- 
ant. Colds  are  not  only  more  easily  taken  by  you, 
but  they  are  longer  in  getting  well,  and  their  effects 
are  seen  in  a  general  prostration  of  your  whole  sys- 
tem, as  well  as  in  a  greater  oppression,  accompanied 
with  more  tenderness  and  pain  in  your  chest." 

"You  think  too  much  about  this,  mother,"  re- 
plied Margaret.  "  You  give  yourself  needless  alarm, 
by  imagining  things  to  exist  which  have  no  reality. 
I  am  not  at  all  conscious  of  the  increased  liability 
to  cold  of  which  you  speak." 

u  But  I  tell  you,  my  child,  it  does  exist.  I  am 
older  than  you,  and  am  a  more  careful  observer.  I 
know,  and  you  know  that  I  have  to  be  exceedingly 
cautious  how  I  expose  myself.  You  remember  how 
near  to  death's  door  I  was,  a  year  ago,  from  inflam- 
mation of  the  lungs,  brought  on  by  exposure  and 
cold.  Such  serious  effects  did  not  formerly  result 
from  colds;  but  now,  the  susceptibility  to  inflam- 
mation is  so  great,  that  my  life  is  endangered  by 
any  sudden  exposure.  At  your  age,  I  was  in  better 
health  than  you  are,  for  I  had,  naturally,  a  better 
constitution.  Then  I  had  no  one  to  counsel  me,  u;< 
you  have — for  my  mother  died  young,  of  the  fatal 
disease  which  she  entailed  upon  me,  and  which  I 
have  entailed  upon  you — and  I  exposed  myself  as 
you  are  now  exposing  yourself.  The  consequence 
was  that  I  not  only  injured  myself,  but  injured  iwy 


60  THREE    SCENES   IN    THE 


children  I  am  incurably  diseased,  and  they  have  a 
predisposition  to  disease  greater  than  I  had.  Now. 
judge  for  yourself  whether  I  am  not  correct  in  say- 
ing that  you  have  no  right  to  abuse  your  health.  I 
had  no  right  to  abuse  my  health,  for  such  abuse 
would  injure  my  children,  as,  alas!  it  has  done.  You 
expect  to  marry  soon,  and  you  have  every  reason  to 
believe  that  you  will  have  children.  If  in  your  body 
exist  the  seeds  of  an  incurable  disease,  they  will  be 
sown  in  the  bodies  of  your  children.  If  you  have 
a  diseased  body,  you  cannot  give  to  them  a  healthy 
one.  Pause,  then,  and  reflect  whether  you  have  any 
right  to  curse  your  children  with  disease  and  prema- 
ture death." 

The  daughter  sat  silent,  and  the  mother  conti- 
nued : — "  I  trust  you  will  now  see  that  you  have  a 
duty  to  others  that  cannot  be  disregarded.  Think 
of  yourself  as  the  wife  of  the  man  to  whom  you 
have  aleady  given  your  affections.  Ten  or  twelve 
years  have  passed  since  the  day  of  your  marriage, 
and  this  lapse  of  time  has  served  only  to  prove  the 
wisdom  of  your  choice,  and  to  unite  you  more  closely 
to  your  husband.  Children  have  blessed  your  union, 
and  are  springing  up  around  you,  and  calling  for 
your  earnest  and  constant  care,  and  drawing  upon 
your  tenderest  affections.  Will  it  add  any  thing  to 
fhe  happiness  of  this  state,  to  see  in  your  oldest 
•  child  an  undue  sensitiveness  to  all  external  impres 
sions,  united  with  a  predisposition  to  inflammation 


LIFE   OF   A  CONSUMPTIVE  61 


of  the  throat  and  lungs,  that  shows  itself  whenever 
the  slightest  cold  is  taken  ?  Or  to  be  yourself,  from 
ill-health,  unable  to  minister  to  the  comforts  of  those 
who  are  best  beloved,  and  for  whom  you  would  then 
be  willing  to  make  almost  any  sacrifice  ?  And  what 
is  much  worse  than  this  may  happen — and  is  more 
than  likely  to  happen — death  may  snatch  you  away, 
and  leave  your  innocent,  helpless  little  children  to 
be  given  into  the  care  of  others,  who  will  not  love 
them  as  you  love  them." 

The  daughter  still  continued  silent,  and  Mrs.  Ellis, 
after  a  brief  pause,  added  : — 

"  It  is  now  known  that  parents  transmit  to  their 
children  tendencies  to  both  mental  and  bodily  dis- 
eases, if  they  have  these  diseases  in  their  minds  and 
bodies,  A  child  born  of  an  unhealthy  parent  cannot 
have  a  perfectly  healthy  body ;  nor  can  a  child  born 
of  a  parent  whose  passions  are  not  under  proper 
control,  have  a  healthy  mind.  If  a  mother,  from  want* 
of  proper  reflection,  and  a  disregard  for  the  good  of 
those  who  may  be  affected  by  her  conduct,  abuse  and 
destroy  her  health,  she  will  transmit  to  the  minds  of 
her  children  the  same  disregard  of  what  is  just  and 
right  that  she  has,  and  the  same  tendencies  to  bodily 
disease.  Thus,  she  will  curse  her  children  with  a 
double  curse.  Think  of  this,  Margaret,  and  for  the 
sake  of  the  children  that  may  one  day  gather  around 
you,  carefully  preserve  your  health  now ;  and,  with 
equal,  nay,  greater  care,  seek  to.  bring  your  mind 

IX,  —6 


62  THREE   SCENES   IN   THE 


under  the  control  of  right  reason,  that  your  children 
may  inherit  orderly  instead  of  disorderly  mental 
tendencies/' 

The  seriousness  with  which  her  mother  spoke, 
more  than  her  words,  impressed  the  mind  of  Mar- 
garet, and  made  her,  for  a  time,  feel  sober ;  but  the 
efiect  was  not  strong  enough  to  induce  her  to  refrain 
from  going  to  a  ball  that  evening,  although  the  air 
was  damp  and  chilly,  and  she  was  but  partially  re- 
covered from  a  recent  cold.  It  was  in  the  hope  of 
dissuading  her  from  going  to  this  ball,  that  her 
mother  had  spoken  so  plainly. 

"  If  you  will  go,  Margaret/'  said  Mrs.  Ellis,  when 
her  daughter  left  her  room  and  came  down  dressed 
for  the  gay  assembly,  of  which  she  was  to  make  one, 
"  I  must  insist  on  your  protecting  yourself  as  far  aa 
it  can  possibly  be  done.  That  shawl  is  too  thin ; 
you  must  wear  your  cloak." 

"  But  I  am  going  in  a  carriage,  mother." 

"  In  passing  from  the  door  to  the  carriage,  both 
in  going  and  returning,  the  cold  air  will  penetrate  to 
your  very  body,  unless  you  have  some  better  pro- 
tection; and  even  in  a  close  carriage,  you  need  to 
be  more  warmly  clad  than  this.  Go,  dear,  and  get 
your  cloak." 

"  It  will  be  so  much  in  my  way,  mother.  I  am 
sure  this  shawl  will  be  warm  enough.  But,  if  you 
think  not,  I  will  wear  my  boa." 

"  Oh,  no !    Don't  think  of  that.     You  are  hoarse 


LIFE   OF  A  CONSUMPTIVE. 


now.  A  boa  round  your  neck  will  only  cause  it  tc 
perspire,  and  the  first  breath  of  air  that  blows  upon 
it  will  check  this  perspiration  and  increase  the  in- 
flammation of  your  throat.  You  had  much  better 
go  as  you  are." 

"  I  shall  be  warm  enough.  This  shawl  is  thicker 
than  you  suppose.  Feel  it." 

But  Mrs.  Ellis  shook  her  head  and  looked  grave. 

a  You'll  spoil  all  my  pleasure  to-night,  if  you  look 
so  serious,  mother,"  said  Margaret. 

"  And  you  will  spoil  all  mine,  if  you  do  not  pay 
more  regard  to  your  health.  Surely,"  and  the 
mother  cast  her  eyes  down  as  she  spoke,  "  you  are 
not  going  to  wear  those  stockings !  You  might 
almost  as  well  go  without  any." 

"  They  are  thin,  I  know.  But  it  is  so  much 
trouble  to  change  your  stockings  after  you  get 
there;  and,  besides,  in  stepping  from  the  door  to 
the  carriage,  there  is  not  the  least  danger  of  taking 
cold." 

All  remonstrance  proved  vain.  When  Mrs.  Ellis 
entered  the  parlour  with  Margaret,  she  said  to  the 
young  man  who  was  awaiting  her  daughter,  and  who 
was  under  an  engagement  of  marriage  with  her : 

"  Mr.  Cranston,  I  wish  you  would  try  and  teach 
this  young  lady  a  little  prudence.  She  is  going  out, 
to-night,  too  thinly  clad,  and  must  inevitably  take 
more  cold.  I  want  her  to  wear  her  cloak,  but  she 
thinks  her  shawl  thick  enough." 


64  THREE   SCENES   IN   THE 


"  Don't  say  a  word,  mother/'  laughingly  retorted 
Margaret.  "  I  am  not  quite  so  frail  as  you  would 
make  me  believe  I  am.  This  shawl  is  abundantly 
warm.  Come,  Henry,  I  am  ready.  Good-night, 
mother  !  Don't  sit  up  for  me.  I  have  a  key,  and 
can  get  in  at  any  time." 

And  so  saying,  the  thoughtless  young  girl  danced 
lightly  from  the  room,  and,  springing  from  the  street- 
door,  was  in  the  carriage  in  a  moment.  Mrs.  Ellis  sank 
down  into  a  chair  with  saddened  feelings,  as  soon  as 
she  was  alone,  and  remained  nearly  motionless  for 
fully  half  an  hour.  Then  she  arose,  and  slowly 
retired,  still  in  deep  abstraction  of  mind. 


SCENE  SECOND. 

IT  was  far  past  the  hour  at  which  the  weary  head 
usually  finds  its  pillow.  The  clock  had  struck 
twelve,  one,  and  two,  and  the  hands  still  moved 
steadily  over  the  dial,  approaching  nearer  and  nearer 
to  the  third  chime  since  the  noon  of  night.  But 
Margaret  had  not  yet  returned,  and  her  mother  sat 
alone,  awaiting  her  arrival.  More  than  twenty  times 
had  she  aroused  herself  to  listen  to  the  sound  of  ap- 
proaching carriage  wheels,  only  to  sink  down  with 
a  feeling  of  disappointment,  as  they  went  rumbling 
by  and  were  heard  no  more  by  her. 

At  last,  over-wearied,  she  laid  her  head  upon  the 


LIFE   OF  A   CONSUMPTIVE.  65 


table  at  which  she  was  sitting  —  in  a  few  moments, 
her  senses  were  locked  in  sleep.  From  this  state  of 
unconsciousness  she  was  aroused  by  the  hand  of  her 
daughter  upon  her  arm. 

"  Bless  me,  mother  !  It  can't  be  possible  that 
you  have  been  sitting  up  for  me  all  this  time  !"  said 
Margaret,  who  had  left  her  lover  at  the  door  and 
glided  hastily  in  just  as  the  clock  was  striking  three. 
She  spoke  in  a  husky,  whispering  voice,  that  thrilled 
through  the  mother's  frame,  and  instantly  restored 
her  lost  consciousness  to  its  fullest  state  of  activity. 
Starting  up,  she  looked  eagerly  into  Margaret's  face, 
and  saw  that  her  cheeks  were  deeply  flushed,  and 
that  her  eyes  had  lost  their  usual  brightness. 

"  You  have  stayed  late,  but  that  can't  be  helped 
now.  How  do  you  feel  ?" 

"  Oh,  very  well/'  was  replied  with  an  effort  to 
speak  cheerfully  and  appear  unconcerned  :  "  only  I 
am  a  little  hoarser  than  I  was/'  she  added,  conscious 
that  she  was  only  speaking  in  a  whisper,  "  but  that 
will  be  gone  by  morning.  You  know  that  the  least 
cold  makes  me  hoarse.  But  it's  nothing.  I  shall  be 
as  well  as  ever  to-morrow." 

Margaret  saw,  as  she  spoke,  that  the  eyes  of  her 
mother  were  fixed  penetratingly  upon  her.  In  spite 
of  herself,  she  was  forced  to  drop  her  own  to  the 
floor,  while  a  flush  of  confusion  passed  over  her  face. 

"  You  breathe  with  difficulty,"  said  Mrs.  Ellis. 
'(  Have  you  no  pain  in  your  breast  ?" 

6* 


66  THREE   SCENES   IN   THE 


"  A  slight  pain  in  my  side,  and  some  pain  here," 
placing  her  finger  on  the  throat-pit. 

The  mother  took  hold  of  her  hand. 

"  Your  hand  is  like  ice  !"  said  she.  "  How  are 
your  feet?— cold  ?" 

"A  little." 

"  Go  quickly  up  to  your  room  and  get  into  bed/' 
said  Mrs.  Ellis,  exhibiting  the  alarm  and  anxiety  she 
felt.  "  I  will  fill  some  bottles  with  hot  water  and 
bring  them  up  immediately  to  place  at  your  feet. 
If  it  were  not  so  late,  I  would  have  the  doctor  sent 
for." 

"You  give  yourself  too  much  uneasiness,  mother," 
returned  Margaret.  "  There  is  no  cause  whatever 
for  it.  It  is  late,  and  I  am  a  good  deal  fatigued. 
Having  taken  a  little  more  cold,  it  can't  be  expected 
that  I  should  feel  perfectly  well.  But  a  few  hours' 
sleep  will  restore  me.  By  morning,  I  shall  be  as 
bright  as  ever." 

"  I  hope  it  may  be  so,"  was  the  mother's  reply. 
"  Go,  and  get  into  bed  at  once ;  and  I  will  be  with 
you  in  a  few  moments." 

In  obedience  to  her  mother's  wishes,  as  well  as 
her  own  inclinations,  Margaret  went  up  quickly  to 
her  chamber.  Mrs.  Ellis  soon  followed  with  the 
bottles  of  hot  water,  which  were  placed  at  her 
daughter's  feet.  It  was  time  some  remedial  agent 
were  applied,  for  not  only  were  Margaret's  hands 
and  feet  cold,  but  the  chilliness  had  passed  through 


LIFE   OF   A    CONSUMPTIVE.  67 


her  entire  frame,  and  she  was  now  shaking  Lke  one 
in  an  ague-fit.  To  overcome  this,  the  mother  used 
all  the  means  within  her  reach.  It  was  nearly  day- 
dawn  before  Margaret  found  sufficient  relief  from 
the  chilliness,  pain,  and  general  uneasiness  with 
which  she  was  affected,  to  sleep.  Then  she  sank 
into  an  uneasy  slumber,  that  was  broken  by  frequent 
nervous  starts,  and  attended  by  meanings  and  words 
incoherently  spoken.  Mrs.  Ellis  did  not  leave  her 
chamber  until  morning,  when  she  despatched  a  ser- 
vant for  their  physician,  with  a  pressing  request  for 
his  immediate  attendance. 

The  doctor  promptly  obeyed  the  summons.  He 
found  the  patient  suffering  from  a  high  degree  of 
inflammation  of  the  larynx  and  trachea,  attended  by 
too  evident  indications  of  its  rapid  descent  towards 
the  lungs.  Prescribing  such  treatment  as  he  hoped 
would  check  this  downward  tendency  of  the  disease, 
he  left,  promising  to  call  in  again  in  the  afternoon. 
On  his  second  visit,  he  found  the  family  somewhat; 
relieved  in  consequence  of  a  subsidence  of  the  hoarse- 
ness ;  but  this,  he  was  sorry  to  find,  on  examination, 
"was  a  less  favourable  symptom  than  had  been  sup- 
posed. It  indicated  merely  a  change  in  the  location 
of  the  disease  from  the  larynx  to  the  bronchia,  where 
increased  pain  was  felt. 

On  the  following  morning,  all  the  symptoms  of  an 
attack  of  acute  pneumonia  were  apparent.  The  pa- 
tient complained  of  great  oppression  and  pain  in  the 


THREE   SCENES   IN   THE 


breast,  that  was  increased  by  a  full  inspiration,  also, 
in  the  side,  with  a  sense  of  weight  under  the  ribs. 
The  hoarseness  was  nearly  all  gone,  but  in  its  place 
was  a  deep  cough,  that  seemed  to  lacerate  the  breast 
at  every  concussion.  She  could  not  lie  upon  her  left 
side  at  all,  and  only  for  a  short  time  upon  her  right 
side,  without  considerable  pain.  Lying  upon  her 
back  relieved  the  pain  she  felt,  but  this  posture 
produced  a  feeling  of  suffocation 

All  the  patient's  symptoms  gradually  became 
worse.  Her  pulse,  which  was  at  first  full  and  hard, 
became  quick  and  sharp,  her  respiration  more  difficult 
and  the  pains  she  experienced  more  severe. 

"  Do  you  think  her  lungs  affected,  doctor  ?"  the 
parents  anxiously  inquired,  not  understanding  that 
every  symptom  she  had,  indicated  a  high  state  of 
inflammation  in  that  vital  organ. 

"  There  is  some  inflammation  there,"  replied  the 
doctor,  evasively. 

"  She  is  not  so  hoarse  as  she  was,"  said  the 
mother,  speaking  as  if  she  supposed  that  at  least  to 
be  a  favourable  symptom. 

"No,  the  hoarseness  is  better,"  was  the  physi- 
cian's brief  reply.  Then  quickly  changing  the  sub- 
ject, he  gave  some  particular  directions  for  their 
observance,  and,  taking  up  his  hat,  bade  the  anxious 
parents  good-morning. 

In  spite  of  all  the  physician's  efforts,  the  disease 
continued  to  advance  rapidly.  By  the  end  of  a  week, 


LIFE  OF  A   CONSUMPTIVE.  69 


the  bright  colour  of  Margaret's  cheeks  changed  to  a 
livid  hue.  Her  neck,  face,  and  chest  were  constantly 
bathed  in  a  cold  and  clammy  perspiration;  her 
countenance  was  anxious  and  distressed ;  her  expec- 
toration, though  not  abundant,  was  sometimes  tinged 
with  blood  j  she  was  so  weak  as  to  be  unable  to  sit- 
up  in  bed,  or  to  speak  without  pain  or  a  feeling  of 
suffocation.  Hope  died  in  the  hearts  of  the  parents 
and  friends. 

This  low  state  continued  for  nearly  two  weeks, 
without  much  apparent  increase  or  decrease  in  the 
most  alarming  symptoms,  except  that  the  patient's 
respiration,  towards  the  end  of  this  time,  became 
easier,  and  she  could  speak  with  less  pain.  But 
neither  herself  nor  parents  were  much  encouraged 
to  hope  for  a  favourable  termination  of  tfie  disease. 

"  Mother/'  said  Margaret,  in  a  low,  feeble  voice, 
as  her  parent  sat  holding  one  of  her  thin,  white 
hands  in  hers,  "  I  have  thought  a  great  deal,  since  I 
have  been  sick,  of  what  you  said  on  the  night  of 
that  ball.  Indeed,  I  have  scarcely  thought  of  any 
thing  else.  I  did  not  clearly  comprehend  you  then : 
but  now  it  is  as  plain  as  if  it  were  written  out  before 
me.  You  said  I  had  no  right  to  disregard  my 
health,  because  its  injury  or  entire  loss  would  affect 
others  as  well  as  myself.  How  plain  this  is  to  me 
now  !  Have  not  you  and  all  my  best  and  nearest 
friends  suffered  most  deeply  on  my  account  ?  And 
have  I  not  brought  disease  upon  myself,  which,  even 


70  THREE   SCENES   IN   THE 


if  rny  life  is  spared,  may  leave  me  with  an  enfeebled 
constitution,  and  an  inability  to  do  for  others  the 
first  and  most  imperative  duties  I  owe  them.  How 
blind  and  thoughtless  I  have  been  I" 

Tears  filled  the  eyes  of  the  sufferer,  and  emotion 
checked  her  utterance. 

"  Do  not  think  of  this,  now,  my  child/'  returned 
the  mother.  "  It  can  only  disturb  your  mind  and 
hinder  your  recovery.  If,  in  the  dispensation  of  a 
wise  and  good  Providence,  your  life  should  mercifully 
be  spared,  I  trust  you  will  let  the  past  time  suffice 
wherein  you  have  wrought  folly,  and  be  wise  in  the 
future." 

Margaret  was  about  making  a  reply,  when  some- 
thing rose  in  her  throat,  which  she  threw  up  with  a 
slight  effort.  It  was  bright  red  blood !  In  a  mo- 
ment after  her  mouth  was  again  filled,  the  effusion 
being  rapid.  She  became  deadly  pale. 

"  My  good  resolutions  are  all  in  vain,"  she  mur- 
mured, the  tears  again  coming  to  her  eyes.  "  It  is 
too  late !" 

A  hurried  message  was  sent  for  the  physician, 
who  happened,  fortunately,  to  be  at  home.  He  came 
immediately,  and  succeeded  in  checking  the  rapid 
Sow  of  blood  from  the  lungs,  but  not  in  stanching 
it  altogether.  The  bleeding  continued  for  several 
days,  by  which  time  Margaret  was  reduced  so  low, 
that  none  but  her  mother,  the  nurse,  and  physician 
were  admitted  to  her  chamber.  But  what  had 


LIFE    OP    A  CONSUMPTIVE.  71 


seemed  a  fatal  change  in  the  disease,  proved  to  be  a 
beneficial  one.  All  inflammation  subsided,  and  nature 
had  only  to  heal  the  lacerations  upon  which  the 
hemorrhage  had  depended,  and  aid  the  whole  system 
in  a  return  to  health.  This  return  was  very  slow, 
and,  what  was  worse,  proved  to  be  only  an  imperfect 
one.  The  glow  of  health,  which  had  given  to  the 
face  of  Margaret  so  much  brightness  and  beauty, 
never  came  back,  except  as  a  hectic  flush  when 
something  occurred  to  disturb  the  orderly  perform- 
ance in  her  body  of  all  its  functions.  The  least  ex- 
posure to  cold  made  her  sick,  with  a  slight  or  more 
serious  oppression  of  the  chest,  pain,  and  cough; 
and  all  irregularities  of  diet,  or  fatigue,  were  visited 
with  more  or  less  evil  consequences.  Bitterly  and 
with  unavailing  regret  did  she  lament  the  folly  that 
she  had  thus  brought  disease  upon  her,  and  which 
threatened  to  render  not  only  her  life  a  burden,  but 
to  hinder  her  from  discharging  her  duties  to  others, 
and  finally  to  abridge  her  life  by  many  years. 

"  Were  you  really  in  earnest,  mother/'  said  Mar- 
garet one  day,  after  she  was  so  far  recovered  as  to 
be  able  to  sit  up  and  walk  across  her  room,  "  when 
you  spoke  about  parents  transmitting  to  their  chil- 
dren a  predisposition  to  the  particular  diseases  from 
which  they  suffered  ?" 

This  question  was  asked  after  she  had  been  sitting 
in  deep  thought  for  some  time. 

" Deeply  in  earnest/'  replied  Mrs.  Ellis.     "It 


72  THREE    SCENES   IN  THE 


follows  from  this  immutable  law  in  nature,  that  like 
produces  like.  As  the  quality  of  the  cause  is,  such 
must  and  will  be  the  quality  of  the  effect.  But 
look  around  you,  and  see  for  yourself.  The  mother 
of  Helen  Malcolm  is  now  dying  of  consumption ;  and 
you  know  that  Helen  is  so  susceptible  to  coughs  and 
colds,  that  she  dares  not  venture  out  unless  the 
weather  be  perfectly  clear.  No  one  expects  her  to 
live  more  than  a  few  years.  My  mother  died  of 
consumption }  I  have  a  marked  predisposition  to  that 
fatal  disease;  and  I  need  not  tell  you  that  your 
lungs  are  peculiarly  sensitive.  In  fact,  no  observant 
mind  for  a  moment  doubts  this  law." 

"  Then  to  be  born  of  consumptive  parents  is  to 
have  an  inevitable  entailment  of  disease  and  early 
death." 

"  No,  that  does  not  follow. 

"  But,  if  I  understand  aright,  scarcely  an  instance 
occurs  in  which  life  is  not  materially  shortened." 

"That  is,  in  almost  all  cases,  the  fault  of  each 
individual  who  inherits  a  peculiar  liability  to  pul- 
monary affections.  If  I  had,  from  the  time  I  became 
mistress  of  my  own  actions,  carefully  guarded  my 
health,  and  not  increased  my  natural  predisposition 
to  this  disease,  but  rather  overcome  it,  I  would  have 
escaped,  and  you  would  have  been  born  with  lungs 
less  liable  to  inflammation  than  mine ;  and  then,  if 
you  had,  with  equal  care,  preserved  your  health, 
your  children  would  be  born  still  less  predisposed 


LIFE    OF    A    CONSUMPTIVE.  73 


to  consumption ;  and  in  your  grandchildren,  or  at 
least  in  their  children,  were  the  same  care  for  health 
observed,  the  tendency  to  this  fatal  disease  would 
be  lost.  What  a  blessing  this  would  be,  I  need  not 
say !  If  such  care  had  been  exercised  by  our  pa- 
rents, they  would  have  bestowed  upon  us  a  legacy 
far  more  desirable  and  far  more  valuable  than  silver 
and  gold.  From  this  you  may  see  that  no  young 
person  has  a  right  to  neglect  her  health — for  in  doing 
so,  she  sacrifices  the  happiness  of  her  children,  in 
entailing  upon  them  the  diseases  that  her  own  con- 
duct has  brought  upon  herself;  and,  it  may  be,  so 
enervates  her  own  constitution,  that  she  is  unable 
properly  to  discharge  her  duty  to  them.  Early 
death  is,  too  often,  the  fatal  consequence  that  ensues, 
where  a  liability  to  consumption  exists,  and  the 
mother  is  torn  from  her  little  ones  at  the  very  time 
when  they  are  most  bound  up  in  her  affections,  and 
most  need  her  care." 

A  gush  of  tears  was  Margaret's  answer  to  this. 
vShe  realized,  in  imagination,  too  vividly  the  dis- 
tressing picture  which  her  mother  had  drawn,  and 
felt  too  seriously  her  own  irreparable  folly. 


SCENE  THIRD. 

TEN  years  have  passed  since  the  scene  last  intro 
duced      It  is  in  the  pleasant  month  of  June,  and 


IX.- 1 


74  THREE   SCENES    IN    THE 


the  day  is  nearly  at  its  close.  We  will  bring  the 
reader  into  a  chamber,  where,  elevated  on  pillows, 
reclines  a  mother,  whose  pale,  thin  face,  large  bright 
eyes,  and  laboured,  almost  gasping  respiration,  tell 
too  plainly  that  her  time  upon  earth  is  but  brief. 
From  great  weakness,  cough,  and  a  gradual  decay, 
she  has  been  suffering  for  many  years,  and  now,  the 
feeble  organism  by  which  her  mind  has  done  its 
work  in  the  natural  world,  is  no  longer  able  to  act 
against  the  influent  life  of  the  soul,  and  is  about  to 
be  laid  aside,  and  the  spirit  ascend  into  the  world  of 
spirits.  There  would  be  nothing  in  this  act  of 
laying  off  the  material  body,  to  sadden  the  feelings, 
had  the  full  time  come,  and  all  life's  duties  been  per- 
formed. But,  alas  !  in  the  instance  we  are  about  to 
contemplate,  this  is  not  so.  Life's  highest  duties 
have  but  just  begun. 

Five  human  beings  are  in  that  chamber,  besides 
the  dying  mother.  The  husband  and  father,  and 
four  little  ones,  the  oldest  but  nine  years  of  age. 
Upon  these  pledges  of  a  pure  and  holy  love,  the 
mother's  eyes  are  fixed  with  an  earnest,  tearful 
intensity. 

n  Oh !  I  cannot  leave  you  all !"  she  murmured 
in  her  husband's  ear;  "I  cannot  give  up  my 
children  to  stranger-hands !  Who  can  love  them 
and  care  for  them  like  a  mother  ?  Oh,  no ! 
God  is  merciful,  and  will  not  take  me  from  my 
children/' 


LIFE    OP    A    CONSUMPTIVE.  75 


But,  even  while  she  thus  gave  utterance  to  the 
feelings  that  were  overpowering  her,  her  breath 
grew  feebler  and  her  pulse  lower. 

"  Bring  me  my  babe/'  she  said,  in  a  quick,  earnest 
voice,  as  if  she  felt  the  hand  of  the  destroyer  laid 
coldly  upon  her  heart,  and  was  conscious  that  her 
moments  upon  earth  were  few. 

An  infant  but  a  few  months  old,  lying  in  a  calm 
deep  slumber,  was  brought  into  the  room  and  laid 
on  a  pillow  beside  her.  It  was  a  beautiful  babe — 
pure  and  sweet  as  innocence  itself.  Long  and 
earnestly  did  the  mother  look  into  its  passionless 
face,  a  smile  of  love  half  forming  itself  around  her 
lips,  while  the  tears  fell  slowly  from  her  eyes,  and 
rested  like  dewdrops  upon  the  infant's  cheeks.  The 
falling  tears  awakened  the  babe ;  its  bright  blue 
eyes  opened,  smiles  dimpled  over  its  cherub  face,  and 
its  hands  were  lifted  in  gladness  at  beholding  the 
countenance  that  was  bent  lovingly  over  it.  Wildly 
did  the  mother  clasp  her  infant  to  her  bosom,  while 
sobs  convulsed  her  whole  frame,  and  her  moans  of 
anguish  filled  the  chamber.  The  nurse  stepped  for- 
ward quickly  to  remove  the  babe  from  her  arms,  but 
she  refused  to  release  it — binding  it  still  more  firmly 
to  her  breast.  But,  in  a  few  moments  her  arms 
relaxed ;  the  babe  fell  gently  upon  the  pillow  from 
which  she  had  lifted  it,  and  the  mother  sank  back 
mute,  unconscious,  pulseless !" 

"  Margaret !"  exclaimed  her  husband,  springing 


76  THREE    SCENES    IN    THE 


quickly  forward,  and  bending  down  over  her;  but  she 
neard  him  not. 

"  Mother !  mother  !"  called,  in  tearful  alarm  and 
anguish,  the  oldest  child,  clambering  upon  the  bed ; 
but  the  mother's  ear  was  deaf.  Never  again  would 
it  thrill  at  the  sweet  sounds  of  children's  voices.  It 
heard  not  the  moans  and  cries  of  anguish  that  filled 
the  chamber  whence  the  spirit  had  fled  for  ever, 
leaving  behind  its  clayey  tenement,  cold,  rigid,  and 
senseless ! 

Thus,  in  her  very  prime,  was  this  young  wife  and 
mother  snatched  away  from  those  who  loved  her 
with  the  deepest  and  purest  love  that  warms  the 
human  breast.  Thus  was  she  torn  from  the  babe  in 
whom  her  very  life  seemed  bound  up ;  and  thus  was 
the  fountain  that  nature  had  opened  for  the  infant's 
sustenance,  closed  for  ever.  With  seeming  justice 
might  one,  who  saw  nothing  beyond  that  chamber 
of  death,  with  all  its  unexpressed  and  inexpressible 
anguish,  charge  with  cruelty  the  great  Disposer  of 
events ;  but  we,  who  have  seen  the  causes  to  these 
sad  consequences,  are  by  no  means  surprised  at  the 
painful  result. 

"  You  have  no  right  to  abuse  your  health,  Mar- 
garet !"  If,  when  this  warning  admonition  was  given 
with  so  much  earnestness  by  her  mother,  Margaret 
Ellis  could  have  looked  into  the  future,  how  would 
she  nave  shuddered  at  the  scenes  we  have  just  con- 
templated with  pain !  But  the  future  is  wisely 


LIFE   OF   A   CONSUMPTIVE.  77 


hidden  from  us,  and  reason  given  to  be  our  guide. 
If  we  hearken  to  the  voice  of  reason,  all  will  be  well ; 
but  if  we  disregard  its  admonitions,  pain  and  suffer- 
ing will  inevitably  follow.  Sad,  indeed,  as  we  have 
seen,  were  the  consequences  that  followed  her  abuse 
of  health.  But  they  stopped  not  here.  In  the  bodies 
of  her  children  she  has  sown  the  seeds  of  the  same 
fatal  disease  that  robbed  her  of  life,  and  with  a 
higher  degree  of  vitality  than  she  received  them  from 
her  mother. 

The  whole  picture  is  one  that  fills  the  mind  with 
sadness.  Utterly  disregarding  all  the  warnings  she 
received,  Margaret  Ellis,  in  the  pursuit  of  her  own 
pleasures,  destroyed  her  health,  and  then  assumed 
the  high  and  important  relations  of  a  wife  and  mother, 
without  the  ability  to  discharge  fully  the  obligations 
thus  taken  upon  herself.  Just  as  she  is  surrounded 
with  children  who  need  all  her  love  and  care — just 
at  the  time  when  she  becomes  her  husband's  very 
second  self,  and  absolutely  necessary  to  his  hap- 
piness— the  consequences  of  her  folly  reach  their 
climax,  and  she  dies  ! 

We  draw  the  curtain  over  this  scene.  We  wish 
to  contemplate  it  no  longer.  To  do  so  could  not 
possibly  furnish  a  stronger  incentive  to  right  conduct 
than  must  be  felt  by  all  who  need  to  be  more  careful 
than  they  are  in  regard  to  health. 

7* 


78  THREE   SCENES   IN   THE 


THE  SEQUEL. 

A  LOVELY  girl,  just  entering  her  eighteenth  year; 
sits  by  an  open  window,  reading.  She  is  deeply 
absorbed  in  her  book,  and  notices  not  that  the  day 
is  declining,  and  the  air  rapidly  falling  in  tempera- 
ture. Even  the  long  sunny  ringlets,  that  the  fresh- 
ening breeze,  ever  and  anon,  blows  across  her  book, 
convey  to  her  mind  no  warning.  Still  she  reads  on, 
until  aroused  by  an  earnest  and  familiar  voice. 

"  My  dear  Florence,  you  mustn't  sit  by  that  open 
window  !  It  might  be  your  death !  Don't  you 
perceive  that  the  air  is  much  colder  than  it  was  an 
hour  ago  ?" 

ct  So  it  is/'  answered  the  young  girl,  moving  from 
the  window,  and  slightly  shivering  as  she  felt  a  chill 
run  over  her  body.  "  I  was  so  interested  in  what 
I  was  reading,  that  I  did  not  notice  the  change/' 

As  she  arose  and  walked  across  the  floor,  she  ex- 
hibited a  tall  and  slender  person,  with  a  narrow 
chest,  long  and  thin  neck,  and  fine  white  skin.  She 
was  very  beautiful,  and  her  father's  eyes  rested  upon 
her  with  pride,  not  unmingled  with  anxiety, — the 
last  of  four  children,  two  of  whom  had  died  very 
young,  and  the  third,  after  she  had  attained  the  age 
of  womanhood  and  was  just  on  the  eve  of  marriage. 


LIFE   OF   A   CONSUMPTIVE.  79 


Florence  was  as  dear  to  her  father  as  the  apple  of 
his  eye.  Inheriting  from  her  mother,  who  had  died 
many  years  before,  a  high  degree  of  susceptibility  to 
disease  of  the  lungs,  a  disease  that  had  snatched  her 
sister  away  in  the  very  spring-time  of  life,  it  was  no 
wonder  that  her  father  loved  her  tenderly,  at  the 
same  time  that  he  felt  most  anxious  in  regard  to  her 
health. 

"  You  are  not  well,  Florence,"  said  her  father,  that 
evening,  after  having  sat  for  some  time  with  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  her  as  she  was  reading. 

Florence  drew  herself  up,  and  pressed  her  hand 
against  her  side. 

"  No,  father/'  she  replied,  "  I  do  not  feel  very 
well" 

«  What  is  the  matter  ?" 

"I  don't  know;  except  that  I  feel  hot  here/'  lay- 
ing her  hand  upon  her  breast,  "  and  cannot  take  a 
long  breath  without  pain." 

"  You  have  taken  cold.  I  was  afraid  of  it,  when 
I  saw  you  sitting  by  the  window,  with  the  air  blow- 
ing over  you  so  freshly/'  said  Mr.  Cranston,  (that 
was  the  father's  name),  manifesting  a  good  deal  of 
concern.  "  You  had  better  go  to  bed,  and  I  will 
step  round  and  see  the  doctor." 

"  I  will  go  to  bed,  father/'  returned  Florence, 
"but  there  is  no  reason  in  the  world  why  you  should 
see  the  doctor.  I  suppose  I  have  taken  some  cold, 
but  shall  be  well  enough  by  morning." 


80  THREE    SCENES   IN   THE 


Mr.  Cranston  said  no  more.  But  the  moment  Lis 
daughter  withdrew,  after  bidding  him  a  tender  good 
night,  he  took  up  his  hat,  and,  leaving  the  house, 
moved  down  the  street  with  hasty  steps.  He  found 
the  doctor,  at  whose  office  he  called,  within. 

"  Is  any  thing  the  matter  ?"  asked  the  physician, 
for  he  saw,  by  the  expression  of  Mr.  Cranston's  face, 
that  he  was  alarmed  about  something. 

"  Oh,  no,  nothing  serious,  I  hope/'  was  replied. 
"  When  I  came  home  this  afternoon,  I  found  Florence 
sitting  by  the  open  window,  with  the  air,  which  had 
fallen  several  degrees  in  a  few  hours,  blowing  freshly 
over  her.  As  she  moved  away,  on  my  speaking  to 
her,  I  noticed  a  slight  shudder  pass  over  her,  as  if 
she  had  been  struck  with  a  sudden  chill.  To-night 
she  complains  of  burning  in  her  breast,  and  cannot 
take  a  long  breath  without  pain.  I  suppose  it  is 
nothing  serious,  but  the  slightest  cold  alarms  me. 
You  know,  doctor,  I  have  good  cause  for  feeling  as 
I  do." 

This  last  sentence  was  spoken  in  a  saddened  voice. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  don't  suppose  it  is  any  thing  serious/' 
the  doctor  replied,  speaking  cheerfully.  "  But  in 
one  naturally  predisposed  to  inflammation  of  the  chest 
and  diseases  of  the  lungs,  as  she  is,  slight  colds,  if 
neglected,  may  prove  troublesome.  It  is  better,  there- 
fore, always  to  meet  the  enemy  in  his  first  inroads, 
and  subdue  him.  Suppose  I  call  round  and  sec 
Florence  ?" 


LIFE   OF   A   CONSUMPTIVE.  81 


"  I  wish  you  would,  doctor.  I  think  ifc  will  be 
much  better/' 

The  doctor  took  up  his  hat  and  accompanied  Mr 
Cranston  home.  He  found  Florence  rather  worse 
than  he  had  expected  to  find  her  from  her  father's 
description.  Her  symptoms  indicated  very  con- 
siderable inflammation  in  her  chest,  although  he  was 
not  able  to  determine  its  exact  location.  In  the 
hope  of  subduing  this  inflammation  before  it  could  dc 
any  serious  injury,  he  applied  a  blister  along  the 
sternum,  and  waited  until  next  morning  to  see  the 
effect  produced  by  this  treatment.  But  it  did  not 
prove  as  salutary  as  he  had  expected.  The  patient 
still  complained  of  a  pain  that  extended  to  her  right 
shoulder,  and  which  was  greatly  augmented  if  she 
attempted  to  take  a  deep  inspiration. 

But  it  is  not  our  intention  to  trace  the  progress  of 
this  disease.  It  is  sufficient  for  our  purpose  to  say, 
that  without  any  very  serious  or  long-continued  ill- 
ness on  the  part  of  Florence,  the  consequences  of  the 
cold  taken  at  the  window  was  such  an  irritation  of 
her  lungs — highly  susceptible  to  disease  from  birth 
— as  to  cause  the  development  of  what  are  known 
to  physicians  as  tubercles,  or  little  nuclese,  that  be- 
come in  time  the  centres  of  so  many  abscesses,  and 
ultimately  cause  such  a  destruction  of  the  lungs  as 
to  produce  death.  When  these  are  once  formed, 
there  is  little,  if  any,  hope  of  a  cure. 

From  this  period,  although  Florence  recovered  in 


82  THREE    SCENES.    ETC. 


a  short  time  from  the  acute  symptoms  produced  by 
the  cold,  she  never  felt  entirely  well.  In  the  course 
of  a  few  months,  a  slight  cough,  from  tickling  in  the 
chest,  began  to  show  itself,  which  at  times  was  very 
troublesome.  Sometimes  her  cheeks  would  be  flush- 
ed, and  her  eyes  deeply  brilliant;  and  again,  pale- 
ness would  overspread  her  countenance,  and  her 
eyes  become  dull  and  almost  expressionless.  Her 
appetite  also  varied — at  times  being  voracious,  and 
then  failing  almost  entirely. 

A  year  had  scarcely  passed,  before  weakening 
night-sweats  made  their  appearance.  The  cough 
had  increased,  and  was  sometimes  very  severe,  ac- 
companied by  only  a  scanty,  mucous  expectoration. 
Soon  after  this  time,  however,  the  cough  became  less 
severe,  but  the  expectoration  was  fuller,  and  of  a 
quality  to  indicate  too  plainly  that  the  tubercles 
had  become  abscesses,  and  were  now  discharging 
themselves. 

From  this  period,  all  the  worst  symptoms  in- 
creased. In  the  hope  of  relief  from  change  of  cli- 
mate, Mr.  Cranston  took  his  daughter  to  Cuba. 
But  this  was  of  no  avail.  The  disease  was  too 
deeply  seated  for  climate  to  have  any  effect.  In  six 
months,  he  returned,  hopeless  and  almost  heart- 
broken. This  was  the  last  tie  that  bound  him  to  life. 
The  wife  of  his  bosom  and  three  children  had  already 
been  taken  from  him,  and  now  the  last  remaining  one 
was  about  to  be  stricken  down  at  his  side. 


THE   OVERPAID    CHECK.  83 


But  grief  and  painful  anxieties  availed  not. 
Death  had  too  surely  marked  his  victim.  Nor  was 
he  the  only  sufferer  in  view  of  this  great  bereave- 
ment. One  worthy  of  his  daughter's  best  affections 
— one  for  whom  she  was  in  every  way  fitted  to  make 
a  loving  companion  through  life — had  won  her 
heart.  But  he  had  a  rival  more  powerful  than  him- 
self— she  was  not  destined  to  be  his  bride,  but  the 
bride  of  Death. 


THE  OVERPAID  CHECK. 


"  I'LL  tell  you  something,  if  you'll  promise  noi 
to  say  any  thing  about  it,"  said  a  young  man  named 
Wheeler,  to  a  fellow-clerk  named  Watson. 

"  I'm  no  hand  at  keeping  secrets,"  returned  Wat- 
son, "  so  you'd  better  not  tell  me." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  will ;  but  you  mustn't  say  any  thing 
about  it.  You  know,  I  had  a  check  for  my  quarter's 
salary  to-day." 

"Yes." 

"  It  was  for  three  hundred  dollars.  Now,  look 
here."  And,  as  Wheeler  spoke,  he  opened  a  drawer 
of  the  desk  at  which  he  was  writing,  took  out  a 
small  parcel  of  bank-bills,  and  commenced  countiDg 


84  THE   OVERPAID   CHECK. 


them  over.  The  whole  amount  was  eight  hundred 
dollars. 

"  There  is  what  I  received  for  my  check,"  said 
he,  in  a  tone  and  with  a  glance  of  exultation. 

"  Eight  hundred  dollars !"  remarked  Watson, 
evincing  surprise. 

"Yes." 

"  I  thought  your  check  called  for  only  three  hun- 
dred dollars." 

"  So  did  I ;  but  it  seems  the  teller  thought  dif- 
ferently." 

"  Then  he  overpaid  your  check  five  hundred 
dollars." 

"  He  did,  and  no  mistake,"  replied  Wheeler, 
"  AVt  I  lucky?  No  errors  corrected  out  of  bank, 
you  know." 

"  But  you  don't  intend  keeping  the  money?" 

"  Yes,  I  do.  Suppose  the  check  had  been  for 
eight  hundred  dollars,  and  the  teller  had  paid  me 
but  three  hundred — would  he  have  rectified  that 
error?  No,  indeed!  It's  a  poor  rule  that  won't 
work  both  ways." 

"  How  could  he  have  made  such  a  mistake  ?" 

a  Easily  enough.  The  counter  was  lined  with  a 
dozen  of  persons  waiting  with  their  checks,  when  I 
handed  up  mine.  You  know  how  curiously  Mr. 

Y makes  his  figures ;  it's  no  great  wonder  that 

there  should  be  mistakes  sometimes.  Now,  what 
figure  do  you  call  that  ?" 


THE   OVERPAID   CHECK.  85 


The  clerk  pointed  to  a  piece  of  paper  which  lay 
upon  the  desk. 

"  It  is  the  figure  three." 

"  Yet  one  might  easily  enough  mistake  it  for  an 
eight,  if  in  a  hurry/' 

«  Oh,  yes." 

"  Just  such  another  figure  was  on  my  check." 

"  Then  the  teller  was  not  so  much  to  blame !" 

"  Oh,  no !  The  mistake  is  by  no  means  a  sur- 
prising one." 

"  But  you  do  not  mean  to  take  advantage  of  the 
error?" 

"  I  certainly  do.  If  it  had  been  on  the  other  side, 
would  he  have  corrected  it  ?" 

"  The  loss  will  fall  upon  himself." 

"  I  don't  care  where  it  falls }  I'll  get  the  advan- 
tage. A  man  doesn't  meet  with  such  good  luck 
every  day." 

"  Indeed,  Wheeler,  I  .think  you're  wrong,"  said 
his  fellow-clerk,  earnestly.  "  We  should  never  seek 
to  secure  a  good  to  ourselves  through  another's  loss. 
The  teller  will  lose  five  hundred  dollars,  unless  you 
go  forward  and  correct  his  mistake,  and  that  will  be 
a  serious  matter  for  him.  You  know  he  has  a  large 
family." 

"  Let  him  take  better  care  another  time ;  but  I 
don't  believe  the  bank  will  make  him  lose  it." 

"  Even  if  they  should  not,  the  principle  upon 
which  you  act  is  wrong." 

X.-8 


86  THE   OVERPAID   CHECK. 


"  That  for  the  principle,"  said  Wheeler,  snapping 
his  thumb  and  finger.  "When  a  man  gets  five 
hundred  dollars  in  his  grasp,  it  takes  a  large  amount 
of  principle  to  get  the  money  out  again.  My  prin- 
ciple is  to  hold  on  to  all  I  can- get." 

The  conversation  between  the  two  young  men 
was  interrupted  at  this  point,  and  they  separated  to 
attend  to  various  duties  that  were  required  of  them. 

"  I  hope  you've  thought  better  of  it,  and  intend 
returning  the  five  hundred  dollars  you  drew  out  of 
the  bank  in  mistake,"  said  Watson,  when  he  had  an 
opportunity  to  speak  again  with  Wheeler  alone. 

"  You're  very  much  mistaken,"  was  the  prompt 
reply.  "  I  intend  no  such  thing.  No  errors  cor- 
rected out  of  bank ;  this  is  the  rule,  and  it's  as  good 
on  one  side  as  on  another.  The  banks  made  the 
rule,  and  let  them  abide  by  it.  Didn't  this  very 
teller  make  a  mistake  of  fifty  dollars  last  winter, 
against  a  check  paid  to  Anderson  &  Miller,  and  re- 
fuse to  correct  it  ?  I  know  a  good  many  instances 
of  the  same  kind.  Now  I'll  turn  the  tables  on  him, 
and  he'll  understand  how  it  feels." 

"You're  wrong;  depend  upon  it,  you're  wrong," 
answered  Watson.  "  The  teller  refused  to  correct 
the  alleged  mistakes,  because  he  did  not  know  them 
to  be  such.  But  you  know  that  you  have  received 
five  hundred  dollars,  not  your  due,  and  that  the  loss 
will  fall  upon  the  individual  who  committed  the 
error." 


THE   OVERPAID   CHECK.  87 

"You  need  not  talk  to  me, Watson;  I  know  what 
I'm  about.  I  just  wanted  five  hundred  dollars,  and 
the  money  has  come  in  the  nick  of  time/' 

Wheeler  was  in  earnest,  as  his  conduct  proved. 
He  kept  the  money,  notwithstanding  several  persons, 
who  came  to  know  of  the  fact,  urged  him  to  do  what 
was  right ;  but  it  proved  of  no  benefit  to  him,  for 
he  lost  it  all,  and  three  hundred  dollars  besides,  in 
an  adventure  made  in  one  of  his  employer's  ships, 
before  the  year  was  out. 

About  this  time,  the  firm  in  whose  service  he  was 
discovered  that  a  system  of  peculation  had  been 
going  on  in  their  establishment,  but  were  unable  to 
trace  the  wrong  to  any  particular  clerk  among  the 
large  number  employed.  Whole  pieces  of  fine  and 
costly  goods  disappeared  mysteriously,  and,  on  vari- 
ous occasions,  the  cash  proved  to  be  unaccountably 
short.  Under  these  circumstances,  a  council  of  tho 
firm  was  called,  and  the  matter  taken  up  seriously. 

"I'm  afraid/'  said  one,  during  this  interview, 
"  that  the  young  man  in  whom  we  have  reposed  so 
much  confidence  is  not  innocent  in  this  matter." 

"You  don't  mean  Wheeler?"  inquired  a  second 
member  of  the  house,  exhibiting  marked  surprise. 

"  I  do,"  was  answered. 

"  Impossible !" 

"  So  I  would  have  said  yesterday;  but  I  heard 
something  this  morning,  that  has  altogether  changed 
my  opinion  of  him." 


88  THE   OVERPAID   CHECK. 


"What  is  it ?" 

"  You  remember  the  adventure  upon  which  he 
lost  so  heavily  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Where  do  you  think  a  large  part  of  the  money 
with  which  he  bought  the  goods  sent  out  came 
from  T9 

"  He  saved  it  from  his  salary,  I  presume." 

"I  believed  the  same;  but  now  T  learn  that  on 
one  of  the  checks  we  gave  him  for  a  quarter's  salary, 
the  teller  overpaid  him  five  hundred  dollars." 

"And  he  kept  it?" 

«  Yes." 

"  Then  he  is  not  honest." 

"  Of  course,  he  is  not.  The  act  was  just  as  dis- 
honest as  stealing." 

"  But  are  you  certain  of  this  ?" 

"John  Phillips  told  me  so  this  morning." 

Phillips  was  a  clerk  in  the  establishment,  and  the 
real  delinquent  in  the  matter  under  investigation. 
He  had  become  apprized  of  the  act  of  Wheeler,  and 
rightly  judged  that  to  give  a  hint  of  it  to  his  em- 
ployers would  turn  their  attention  from  him  and  fix 
his  guilt  upon  another,  if  his  peculations  were  made 
the  subject  of  investigation,  as  he  had  every  reason 
to  believe  was  about  being  the  case. 

"  Can  we  believe  him  ?" 

"  He  says  Andrew  Watson  knows  it  to  be  the 
case." 


THE   OVERPAID   CHECK.  89 

Watson,  being  questioned,  fully  confirmed  the  fact. 
Other  evidence  was  added,  establishing  the  matter 
beyond  a  doubt. 

"  It  won't  do  to  retain  him  in  our  employment/' 
said  one  of  the  firm. 

"  No.  But  who  would  have  dreamed  of  suspect- 
ing him  ?  It  is  well  we  have  not  yet  carried  out 
our  intention  of  establishing  a  house  in  Cincinnati. 
With  him  at  the  head  of  it,  as  was  designed,  we 
might  have  sustained  a  heavy  loss." 

Not  the  slightest  evidence  appeared  against 
Wheeler.  Still,  there  was  the  fact  of  his  dishonesty 
in  the  matter  of  the  check  before  the  eyes  of  his 
employers,  who  were  suffering  loss  from  some  one 
about  their  establishment.  Their  determination, 
after  long  debating  the  matter,  and  viewing  it  upon 
every  side,  was  to  inform  him  that  they  no  longer 
had  need  of  his  services.  Nothing  could  have  more 
astounded  the  young  man  than  did  this  announce- 
ment when  it  was  made.  His  inquiry  into  the 
cause  of  his  dismissal  was  not  answered  truly :  some- 
thing about  the  necessity  of  reducing  expenses  was 
alleged ;  and  that  was  about  all  the  satisfaction  he 
received. 

Being  a  most  excellent  salesman,  and  in  every 
way  competent  to  take  charge  of  business,  Wheeler 
received  the  offer  of  a  situation  at.  a  thousand  dollars 
a  year,  as  soon  as  it  was  known  that  he  had  left  his 
old  place.  This  offer  he  accepted,  although  the 

8* 


90  THE   OVERPAID   CHECK. 


salary  was  two  hundred  dollars  less  than  the  one  he 
had  been  receiving. 

In  the  house  from  which  he  was  dismissed,  Whee- 
ler had  been  employed  for  ten  years ;  he  entered  it 
as  a  lad  of  fifteen,  and  had  always  acted  so  as  to 
secure  the  confidence  and  respect  of  every  member 
of  the  firm.  His  expectations  in  life,  so  far  as  busi- 
ness matters  were  concerned,  did  not  go  beyond  this 
house.  A  branch  in  Cincinnati  had  been  for  some 
time  under  contemplation,  and  it  was  understood 
that  he  was  to  have  an  interest  in  it,  and  it  was  to 
be  under  his  charge.  His  disappointment  and  mor- 
tification were,  therefore,  extreme.  He  knew  that 
the  cause  assigned  for  his  discharge  was  not  the  real 
one,  for  business  had  never  been  more  active ;  and 
had  he  possessed  a  doubt  on  this  subject,  it  would 
have  been  removed  by  the  fact,  that  a  few  weeks 
after  he  left  his  old  place,  another  clerk  was  engaged. 

This  reaction  upon  the  young  man's  error,  al- 
though he  was  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  it  was  such 
a  reaction,  sobered  his  feelings  very  much.  We  say 
ignorant  of  the  fact,  still  a  thought  of  what  he  had 
done  would  occasionally  cross  his  mind,  and  stir  a 
latent  suspicion  of  some  connection  between  the  over- 
paid check  and  his  loss  of  favour  in  the  eyes  of  his 
old  employers.  The  effect  of  this  was  to  awaken  a 
feeling  of  regret  for  having  kept  the  money,  which 
became,  at  length,  so  distinct  an  impression  as  to 
trouble  him. 


THE   OVERPAID   CHECK.  91 


About  a  year  after  Wheeler  had  left  his  old  place, 
the  merchant  in  whose  employment  he  was,  said  to 
him  one  day,  on  coming  in  from  the  bank,  where  he 
had  been  to  attend  to  some  business — "  I'm  sorry 
to  hear  bad  news  about  Gardiner,  the  first  teller  in 
our  bank." 

"  Ah  !     What  is  it  ?"  inquired  Wheeler. 
"  He  has  been  detected  in  several  false  entries." 
"  It  can't  be  possible !     I  have  always  believed 
him  to  be  a  very  honest  man." 

"  So  have  I.     In  fact,  the  circumstances  are  such 
as  to  show  the  existence  of  strong  temptations." 
"  How  much  has  he  taken  from  the  bank  ?" 
"  Only  five  hundred  dollars  have  been  discovered; 
and  that,  he  says,  is  the  full  amount  abstracted  from 
the  funds  of  the  institution,  and  I  am  disposed  to 
believe  him." 

"  What  could  have  possessed  him  to  do  so?v 
"  Very  peculiar  circumstances.  He  has  a  large 
family,  and  his  expenses  have  been  fully  up  to  his 
income.  About  two  years  ago,  he  says  that  he  over- 
paid to  some  one,  five*  hundred  dollars,  which  the 
institution  required  him  to  make  good;  it  was  de- 
ducted from  his  salary,  at  the  rate  of  one  hundred 
and  twenty-five  dollars  a  quarter.  In  the  mean 
time,  debt  became  the  unavoidable  consequence,  and 
under  its  harassment,  and  goaded  by  the  thought 
that  the  bank  was  unjust  in  laying  the  entire  burden 
of  the  error  upon  him,  when  he  was  so  little  able  to 


92  THE  OVERPAID   CHECK. 


bear  it,  he  yielded  to  the  temptation,  and  made  five 
false  entries  in  the  book,  each  for  one  hundred 
dollars.  This  is  his  account  of  the  matter,  and  I 
believe  and  pity  him/' 

"  What  course  will  the  bank  pursue  ?"  inquired 
Wheeler,  in  so  changed  a  voice  that  his  employer 
looked  at  him  curiously. 

"  Gardiner  has  been  removed  from  his  place,  and 
his  securities  released.  The  directors,  under  the 
circumstances,  voted  to  let  the  loss  fall  upon  the 
bank ;  but  while  they  pitied  the  young  man,  they 
could  not  retain  him  in  so  responsible  a  situation  as 
the  one  he  had  occupied." 

"  Oh,  dear !"  fell  from  the  lips  of  Wheeler,  in  a 
tone  of  distress,  that  was  far  more  deeply-grounded 
in  his  heart  than  the  merchant  dreamed. 

"  I  don't  envy  the  feelings  of  him  who  received 
the  temporary  benefit  from  that  poor  clerk's  error, 
when  he  comes  to  hear  of  the  sad  consequence  that 
has  followed,"  said  Wheeler's  employer,  as  he  turned 
from  the  young  man.  How  the  words  stunned  the 
ears  that  heard  them  ! 

For  days  and  weeks,  little  else  but  the  thought  of 
Gardiner's  dismissal  from  the  bank  was  in  the  mind 
of  Wheeler.  Most  sincerely  did  he  repent  of.  what 
he  had  done,  and  with  repentance  came  the  wish  to 
make  restitution.  While  in  this  state  of  mind,  Gar- 
diner came  into  the  store  to  see  his  employer  and 
lay  before  him  an  offer  to  go  into  business  which  he 


THE   OVERPAID   CHECK.  93 


had  received.  In  order  to  form  the  connection,  he 
must  have  a  capital  of  five  hundred  dollars;  but  ho 
had  not  a  cent,  was  out  of  employment,  and  his 
family  dependent  for  their  daily  bread  upon  the 
bounty  of  a  relative. 

"  The  offer  is  a  very  good  one,"  said  the  merchant. 
"  But  can  you  furnish  the  capital  ?" 

"  No,"  was  replied,  "  that  is  the  difficulty." 

"  How  do  you  think  of  obtaining  it  ?" 

"  I  know  of  no  resource,  unless  those  who  do  not 
think  me  really  dishonest  at  heart,  and  who  pity  my 
misfortune,  help  me.  Can  I  depend  upon  you  for 
any  aid  ?" 

"  I'm  afraid  not,"  replied  the  merchant.  "  I 
have  need  of  every  dollar  it  is  possible  for  me  to 
command." 

Gardiner  went  away,  looking  sad  and  hopeless. 
Wheeler  did  not  hear  what  he  had  said,  but  he  was 
painfully  affected  by  the  expression  of  his  counte- 
nance. 

"  Poor  fellow !"  said  the  merchant,  after  Gardiner 
had  retired.  "  I  pity  him,  but  I  can't  risk  my  mo- 
ney on  one  who  has  proved  himself  dishonest,  even 
though  it  were  under  strong  temptation.  He  has  a 
capital  offer  to  go  into  business,  if  he  had  only  five 
hundred  dollars  to  invest,  but  he  will  find  it  difficult 
to  raise  that  sum ;  at  least,  from  people  who  know 
any  thing  of  his  short-comings  while  in  the  bank." 

"Wheeler  heard  this,  but  said  nothing.     He  wa? 


04  THE   OVERPAID   CHECK. 


naturally  fond  of  money,  and  ardently  desired  to 
accumulate  property.  He  made  it  a  rule  never  to 
spend  over  half  of  his  salary,  and,  in  consequence, 
always  had  money  laid  up  in  bank,  invested  in  good 
stocks,  or  accumulating  by  means  of  such  business 
operations  as  he  could  enter  into  without  interfering 
with  his  regular  duties  as  a  clerk.  His  ultimate 
intention  was  to  commence  business  himself  as  sooti 
as  he  had  saved  about  five  thousand  dollars,  unless 
a  good  connection  in  some  well-established  house 
offered  before  that  time;  towards  this  object  he  had 
already  accumulated  nearly  two  thousand  dollars. 
Although  he  had  lost,  in  an  unsuccessful  adventure, 
the  five  hundred  dollars  obtained  through  the  teller's 
error,  yet  the  thought  of  restitution  came  into  his 
mind;  he  felt  that  Gardiner's  misfortune  lay  at  his 
door — that  he  had  injured  him  beyond  all  hope  of 
full  reparation.  But  his  strong  love  of  money,  and 
ardent  desire  to  accumulate  a  sufficient  sum  of  mo- 
ney to  justify  him  in  commencing  business  for  him- 
self, arose  in  opposition  to  the  honest  and  generous 
impulse.  Then  came  a  warm  debate  in  his  mind 
between  selfishness  and  just  principles,  which  went 
on  for  several  days,  during  which  time  he  was  much 
disturbed.  To  restore  the  five  hundred  dollars  was 
to  put  off  for  at  least  a  year  beyond  the  time  when 
he  expected  to  get  into  business,  the  period  he  so 
anxiously  wished  to  arrive,  and  his  heart  sank  at 
the  thought.  Then  came  the  question  whether  the 


THE    OVERPAID    CHECK.  95 


money,  if  restored,  should  go  to  Gardiner  or  the 
bank.  This  was  soon  settled,  however,  on  the  side 
of  the  former,  against  whom  the  wrong  had  been 
done,  and  who  had  been  so  great  a  sufferer  in  con- 
sequence. 

It  was  nearly  two  weeks  before  the  mind  of 
Wheeler  came  to  a  full  decision ;  it  was  in  favour 
of  justice.  After  deciding,  he  acted  quickly.  Five 
hundred  dollars  worth  of  stock  was  sold,  and  the 
money  sent  to  Gardiner  in  a  letter,  to  which,  of 
course,  there  was  no  signature.  He  then  felt  more 
comfortable  in  mind,  especially  as  Gardiner  imme- 
diately closed  with  the  pending  offer,  and  came  intc 
a  business  that,  while  it  gave  him  a  comfortable 
living  for  the  present,  promised  well  for  the  future. 

A  few  months  after  this,  his  old  employers  were 
waited  upon  by  the  merchant  whom  he  was  serving 
as  a  clerk. 

"  I  wish,"  said  the  latter,  "  to  ask  you  one  or  two 
questions  about  Wheeler.  I  have  thought,  for  some 
time,  of  offering  him  an  interest  in  my  business; 
but  before  doing  so,  it  seemed  but  right  that  I  should 
see  you  and  ask  the  reason  why  you  did  not  retain 
him  in  your  employment.  It  could  not  have  been 
for  want  of  ability  or  attention  to  business." 

"  No.  Few  young  men  have  his  capacity,"  was 
replied. 

"  Then  you  had  a  reason  for  dispensing  with  his 
cervices  beyond  this?" 


96  THE    OVERPAID    CHECK. 


"  We  certainly  had." 

"  May  I  be  permitted  to  inquire  what  it  was  '/" 

"Yes;  and  under  the  circumstances,  we  cannot 
withhold  a  candid  answer.  You  know  that  Gardi- 
ner, the  paying-teller  in  the  Bank,  lost  his 

place  for  abstracting  five  hundred  dollars  to  make 
good  his  own  loss  in  consequence  of  having  overpaid 
that  sum  on  a  check." 

"  Yes;  and  I  have  pitied  him  very  much.  His 
was  rather  a  hard  case.  The  scoundrel  who  took 
advantage  of  his  mistake,  if  known,  should  meet 
with  the  execration  of  all  honest  men." 

"  We  are  sorry  to  say  that  Wheeler  was  the  man 
who  drew  the  check." 

"Wheeler?" 

"  Yes.  On  a  check  of  three  hundred  dollars, 
received  for  his  quarter's  salary,  G-ardiner  paid  him 
by  mistake  eight  hundred,  and  he  kept  the  money." 

"And  for  this  you  discharged  him  from  your 
house." 

"  Yes,  as  soon  as  we  were  apprized  of  the  fact, 
which  was  nearly  a  year  after  it  occurred." 

(<  Did  you  tell  him  the  reason  ?" 

"  No ;  we  didn't  care  to  do  that." 

"  He's  not  an  honest  man,"  said  the  merchant, 
on  learning  this;  "and,  of  course,  not  worthy  of 
confidence.  So  far  from  connecting  myself  with  him 
in  business,  I  shall  hardly  deem  it  prudent  to  retain 
him  about  me,  even  in  his  present  capacity." 


THE   OVERPAID   CHECK.  9/ 


And  on  this  view  he  acted.  From  that  iime. 
Wheeler's  situation  was  rendered  so  unpleasant, 
that  in  the  course  of  a  few  months  he  gave  it  up  and 
sought  another  place. 

Again  he  had  felt  the  reaction  of  his  error,  with- 
out comprehending  from  whence  the  effect  proceed- 
ed. He  did  not  know  how  much  he  had  lost  in 
seeking  to  gain  five  hundred  dollars  dishonestly. 

Tenderly  attached  had  Wheeler  been  for  two  or 
three  years  to  a  beautiful  and  affectionate  young 
lady,  whose  connections  embraced  many  families  of 
wealth  and  influence.  Her  name  was  Adeline  Bur- 
ton. As  her  uncle,  with  whom  she  resided,  was  a 
man  of  some  property,  and  she  was  living  in  a  style 
of  more  elegance  than  Wheeler  could  support,  he 
had  delayed  urging  a  marriage  until  he  could  get 
into  business.  But  he  saw  one  young  man  after 
another,  by  far  less  capable  and  experienced  than 
himself,  selected  by  men  of  capital  as  partners,  or 
introduced  into  firms  to  which  they  had  formerly 
held  a  clerk's  relation,  while  he  was  passed  by  most 
unaccountably.  A  feeling  of  discouragement  came 
over  him;  he  saw  no  light  in  the  future.  Anxious 
to  lead  to  the  altar  the  one  he  loved,  he  yet  hesi- 
tated ;  for  he  could  not  think  of  removing  her  from 
her  pleasant  home  into  one  at  all  inferior,  or  want- 
ing in  the  elegances  with  which  she  was  familiar. 

While  hesitating  whether  to  ask  his  betrothed,  for 
such  was  the  relation  Adeline  bore  to  him,  to  name 

IX.-9 


98  THE   OVERPAID   CHECK. 


in  early  day  for  their  marriage,  he  observed  a  sud- 
den change  in  her  manner  towards  him.  While 
pondering  this  strange  circumstance,  he  was  astound- 
ed by  the  receipt  of  all  his  letters  and  little  souve- 
nirs, and  a  cold  request  to  have  hers  returned.  In- 
dignant at  such  faithlessness,  he  sent  back  what  she 
desired,  without  a  word  of  reply,  either  verbal  or 
written.  But  the  circumstances  seemed  to  stun  him. 
He  had  loved  Adeline  with  a  most  earnest  affection, 
and  in  all  his  dreams  of  his  future  life,  her  image 
had  been  beautifully  blended.  The  blow  was  a 
heavy  one,  and  saddened  his  heart  for  life.  Soon 
after,  he  left  the  East  and  removed  to  a  Western  city. 
Ten  years  had  elapsed,  and  then  Wheeler  came 
back  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  gone  away.  On 
the  little  sum  he  had  saved  from  his  earnings,  he 
had  commenced  a  small  business  in  a  far-off  Western 
town.  Gradually  this  grew  into  importance,  and 
now  it  became  necessary  to  visit  the  East,  in  order 
to  purchase  a  stock  of  goods.  Hitherto  he  had 
supplied  himself  either  in  Cincinnati  or  Pittsburg. 
In  the  old  place,  he  found  every  thing  changed. 
Scarcely  a  familiar  countenance  met  him  as  he  walk- 
ed the  streets,  and  in  the  business  portions  of  the  city 
only  here  and  there  did  he  observe  the  "  signs"  of 
other  times.  Gardiner,  the  once  unfortunate  bank- 
teller,  had  become  a  prosperous  merchant,  and  was 
considered  to  be  worth  fifty  or  sixty  thousand  dol- 
lars. This  fact  he  learned  with  pleasure. 


THE   OVERPAID   CHECK.  99 


Wheeler  did  not  ask  for  Adeline.  He  could  not 
trust  himself  to  speak  of  her  to  any  one,  for  not  yet 
had  her  beautiful  image  faded  from  his  memory 
Once  truly  beloved,  and  never  proved  unworthy  of 
his  heart's  best  affections,  he  had  not  been  able  to 
forget  her;  yet,  having  been  rejected  without  a  rea- 
son, he  had  never  felt  inclined  to  ask  for  one,  nor 
to  seek  a  renewal  of  the  old  relations.  For  all  ho 
had  learned  to  the  contrary,  she  had  become,  years 
before,  the  bride  of  another. 

After  remaining  a  few  days  in  the  city  and  making 
some  purchases,  he  prepared  to  leave  for  the  West, 
On  the  day  previous  to  his  intended  departure,  while 
passing  along  the  street,  he  came  suddenly  upon 
Adeline  Burton.  The  lady  started,  paused  slightly, 
and  then  went  hurriedly  on.  Her  face  was  thin, 
and  wore  a  look  of  suffering  and  resignation ;  she 
turned  very  pale  when  she  saw  him. 

Wheeler  was  deeply  agitated  by  this  apparition. 
He  did  not  leave  the  city  on  the  next  day,  as  he  had 
intended }  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  go  now,  until 
he  had  obtained  an  interview  with  Adeline,  who  had 
not,  as  he  learned,  given  her  vows  to  another.  After 
lying  awake  nearly  all  night,  thinking  over  the 
course  best  to  pursue,  he  finally  determined  to  see 
her  uncle,  and  plainly  ask  the  reason  why  Adeline 
had,  years  before,  broken  the  engagement  into  which 
she  had  entered.  Upon  this  resolution  he  acted. 
The  uncle  received  him  with  chilling  formality ; 


100  THE   OVERPAID    CHECK. 


but,  not  repulsed  by  this,  Wheeler  came  at  once  to 
the  object  of  his  visit. 

"  Ten  years  ago,  sir/'  said  he,  calmly,  "  your 
niece,  to  whom  I  was  engaged  in  marriage,  broke 
her  contract  with  me,  and  without  assigning  any 
reason.  I  asked  none,  and  to  this  day  have  re- 
mained ignorant  of  her  motives ;  but  I  now  feel  a 
wish  to  know  them.  Will  you  do  me  the  justice  to 
give  me  the  information  I  seek  ?" 

"  Certainly/'  replied  the  uncle ;  "  if  you  desire 
to  learn  what  influenced  Adeline,  I  see  no  reason 
why  you  should  not  be  gratified." 

"  Speak,  then ;  I  am  prepared  to  hear." 

"  You  remember  Gardiner,  the  teller  in  the 

Bank  ?"  said  the  uncle. 

A  deep  crimson  instantly  covered  the  face  of 
Wheeler,  and  his  eyes  remained  for  some  moments 
cast  upon  the  floor.  When  he  looked  up,  his  coun- 
tenance was  composed. 

(t  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  I  remember  Gardiner  very 
well,  for  I  have  cause.  I  understand  it  all  now. 
Adeline  was  told  that  I  unjustly  withheld  from  the 
bank  five  hundred  dollars  received  in  mistake?" 

The  uncle  bowed  gravely. 

"  And  for  this  she  rejected  me  ?" 

"  She  did,  and  I  must  say  with  good  cause." 

•"  Perhaps  so,"  said  Wheeler.  "  Yet  may  not  a 
repent  of  a  wrong  act  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes.     But  we  will  judge  of  the  quality  of 


THE   OVERPAID    CHECK.  101 


this  repentance  by  his  efforts  to  repair  the  injury  he 
has  wrought/' 

"  True.  And  now  will  you  do  me  the  justice  to 
see  Gardiner,  and  ask  him  if  he  did  not,  more  than 
ten  years  ago,  receive  from  an  unknown  hand  the 
sum  of  five  hundred  dollars  ?" 

"  Then  you  restored  the  money  ?" 

"  I  did.  But  see  him ;  put  the  question  to  him, 

Then  go  to  the Bank,  and  ask  the  cashier  if, 

seven  years  ago,  he  did  not  receive  a  letter  from  the 
West,  covering  a  remittance  of  five  hundred  dollars 
to  be  placed  to  the  credit  of  Gardiner,  in  liquidation 
of  the  deficit  remaining  in  his  account." 

u  That  would  be  restitution  twofold,"  said  the 
uncle  of  Adeline. 

"And  it  has  been  made,"  returned  Wheeler, 
speaking  with  much  warmth.  "  But  do  me  the 
justice  to  prove  the  truth  of  what  I  have  said.  To- 
morrow, I  will  see  you  again." 

Saying  this,  Wheeler  arose  and  retired.  On  the 
next  day,  when  he  called  again  upon  the  uncle  of 
Adeline,  his  reception  was  very  different.  His  hand 
was  grasped  warmly  the  instant  he  came  in. 

"  I  have  seen  both  Gardiner  and  the  cashier," 
said  the  uncle,  "  and  it  is  all  as  you  say.  Gardiner, 
having  done  well  in  business,  offered,  some  years 
ago,  to  make  good  his  short-comings  at  the  bank, 
but  your  remittance  had  anticipated  him;  and  he 
now  sends  you  this  check  for  five  hundred  dollars 

9* 


102  THE   OVERPAID   CHECK. 


as  a  return  of  the  loan  you  made  him  ten  years 
ago." 

"  I  cannot  receive  it,"  was  the  prompt  reply  of 
Wheeler. 

"  But  Gardiner  will  not  feel  happy  if  you  refuse/' 

"  And  I  will  not  feel  happy  if  I  accept.  But  let 
us  waive  that  now;  there  is  something  else  nearer 
my  heart.  It  was  for  this  cause  that  Adeline  turned 
from  me?" 

"It  was." 

"  Has  she  loved  another  since?" 

(t  No.  She  has  received  three  or  four  advantage- 
ous offers,  but  rejected  them  all." 

"  Do  you  object  to  my  seeing  her  again?' 

"  No.  You  committed  a  grievous  error;  but  you 
have  seen  that  it  was  wrong,  and  have  repaired  the 
injury  to  the  best  of  your  ability.  None  can  ask 
.more  than  this.  All  are  liable  to  do  wrong,  yet  few 
sincerely  repent." 

"  Are  you  willing  to  inform  Adeline,  before  I  see 
her,  of  all  you  have  just  learned  ?" 

"  That  has  already  been  done." 

"It  has?" 

"Yes." 

"Will  she  see  me?" 

"  I  will  ask  her,  if  you  desire  it." 

"  This  evening,  I  will  call  at  your  house,"  said 
Wheeler.  "  Inform  Adeline  of  my  wish  to  see  her, 
&nd  tell  her,  that  since  the  unhappy  hour  she  turned 


THE   OVERPAID    CHECK  103 


from  me?  I  have  not  ceased  to  think  and  pray  for 
her." 

That  evening,  Wheeler  called,  as  he  proposed  to 
do.  After  sending  up  his  name,  he  sat  awaiting  the 
appearance  of  either  Adeline  or  her  uncle  for  nearly 
five  minutes.  Then  he  heard  footsteps  on  the  stairs. 
A  few  moments  of  suspense,  and  the  loved  one  of 
many  years  entered,  leaning  upon  the  arrn  of  her 
relative.  Her  countenance  was  pale,  yet  in  her 
eyes  was  the  light  of  other  times.  Wheeler  stepped 
quickly  forward  to  meet  her,  and  she  received  his 
extended  hand,  and  returned  its  warm  pressure. 
While  they  yet  stood,  mutely  gazing  upon  each 
other,  the  uncle  retired,  and  they  were  left  alone. 
What  passed  between  them,  we  will  not  record. 
Enough,  that  two  weeks  afterwards,  Adeline  was  on 
tLe  way  to  a  new  home  in  the  West. 


THE  TWO  ACTS;  OR,  "THEY  HAVE 
THEIR  REWARD." 


"  No,  indeed  !  I  shall  do  no  such  thing/'  said  Mrs. 
Lionel  to  her  husband,  who  had  come  home  with 
the  intelligence  that  a  cousin  of  his,  a  widow,  had 
died  suddenly,  and  left  a  little  girl,  three  years  old, 
whom  he  proposed  that  his  wife  should  adopt  and 
raise  as  her  own — they  having  no  children.  But 
she  gave  a  decided  negative  on  the  spot. 

"  She  is  a  sweet,  interesting  child,"  urged  Mr. 
Lionel.  "  You  will  soon  get  attached  to  her,  and 
be  more  than  repaid,  in  the  new  affection  awakened 
in  your  heart,  for  all  the  care  and  trouble  she  may 
occasion." 

"It  is  of  no  use  to  talk  to  me,  Mr.  Lionel/'  re- 
turned the  lady,  in  a  positive  tone  of  voice.  "  1 
know  all  about  the  care  and  trouble,  and  am  not 
willing  to  take  it  upon  myself.  As  I  have  no  chil- 
dren of  my  own,  I  am  not  disposed  to  take  the  burden 
of  other  people's.  So  it  is  useless  for  you  to  press 
this  subject;  for  I  will  never  consent  to  what  you 
propose." 

"  If  you  feel  in  that  way,  I  shall  certainly  not 

104 


THE   TWO   ACTS.  105 


urge  the  matter,"  said  her  husband.  "  Though,  as 
far  as  I  am  concerned,  it  would  give  me  great  pleasure 
to  adopt  Aggy,  who  is  a  charming  little  creature. 
I  wish  you  could  see  her." 

"  I  have  no  particular  desire.  All  children  are 
alike  to  me.  As  to  the  beauty,  that  is  a  poor  com- 
pensation for  the  trouble.  So  I  must  beg  to  be  ex- 
cused." 

Mr.  Lionel  said  no  more  on  the  subject.  He  was 
exceedingly  fond  of  children,  and  never  ceased  to 
regret  that  he  had  none  of  his  own. 

In  two  or  three  instances  before,  he  had  endea- 
voured to  prevail  upon  his  wife  to  adopt  a  child;  but 
she  had,  each  time,  firmly  declined.  She  had  very 
little  affection  for  children  herself,  and  was  not 
willing  to  take  the  care  and  trouble  that  she  saw 
would  necessarily  be  involved  in  the  adoption  of  a 
child.  The  little  girl  who,  by  the  death  of  his  cousin, 
had  been  left  homeless  and  apparently  friendless, 
was  a  sweet  young  creature,  whom  to  look  upon 
was  to  love.  Mr.  Lionel  had  never  seen  her 
without  a  warming  of  his  heart  toward  her,  and  a 
secret  wish  that  she  were  his  own  instead  of  another's. 
The  moment  he  heard  of  his  cousin's  death,  he  de- 
termined to  adopt  Agnes,  or  Aggy,  as  she  was  called, 
provided  his  wife  were  willing.  But  Mrs.  Lionel 
was  not  willing.  She  was  too  selfish  to  love  any 
thing  out  of  herself.  A  thought  of  the  child's  good 
— of  giving  a  home  to  the  homeless — of  being  a  mother 


106  THE  TWO  ACTS;  OR, 


to  the  motherless — never  crossed  her  inind.    She  only 
thought  of  the  trouble  the  little  orphan  would  give. 

The  insuperable  difficulty  in  the  way  of  adopting 
Aggy  as  his  own,  did  not  destroy  the  interest  which 
Mr.  Lionel  felt  in  her.  He  considered  it  his  duty 
to  see  that  she  was  provided  with  a  good  home,  and 
was  willing  to  be  at  the  cost  of  her  maintenance,  if 
necessary.  His  first  thought  had  been  to  adopt  the 
child,  and  until  that  was  understood  to  be  out  of  the 
question,  he  had  thought  of  nothing  else  in  regard 
to  her.  How  she  was  to  be  disposed  of,  now  that 
his  wife  had  definitely  settled  the  matter  against 
him,  became  a  new  subject  of  reflection.  After  due 
deliberation,  he  concluded  to  see  a  distant  relative  on 
the  subject,  with  whom,  since  his  marriage,  he  had 
held  but  little  familiar  intercourse,  although  he  had 
entertained  for  her  a  high  respect.  The  reason  of 
this  was  the  cold,  proud,  unsocial  temper  of  his  wife, 
who  rather  looked  down  upon  his  relatives,  because 
their  standing  in  society  was  not,  as  she  considered 
it,  quite  as  high  as  hers  had  been  and  still  was. 
Necessarily,  such  a  disposition  in  his  wife  would 
prevent  intimate  social  intercourse  between  Mr. 
Lionel  and  his  relatives,  notwithstanding  his  re- 
gard for  them  might  continue  as  high  as  before  his 
marriage. 

The  relative  to  whom  reference  has  just  been 
made  was  a  lady  whose  husband,  a  very  estimable 
man,  was  in  moderately  good  circumstances.  They 


THEY   HAVE   THEIR   REWARD.  107 


had  three  children  of  their  own,  the  youngest  of 
which  was  nearly  ten  years  of  age.  From  his  ap- 
preciation of  Mrs.  Wellford' s  character,  Mr.  Lionel, 
who,  from  thinking  of  Aggy  as  his  adopted  child, 
began  to  love  her  almost  as  much  as  if  she  were 
really  his  own,  felt  a  strong  desire  that  she  should 
take  the  orphan.  He  had  not  seen  her  for  a  couple 
of  years  when  he  called  upon  her  to  talk  about  the 
matter.  A  little  to  his  surprise,  Mrs.  Wellford, 
when  she  met  him  in  the  parlour,  entered  leading 
Aggy  by  the  hand. 

"  Dear  little  creature !"  said  he,  taking  the  child 
in  his  arms  and  kissing  her,  as  soon  as  he  had  shaken 
bands  with  Mrs.  Wellford.  "  I  am  glad  to  see 
you  in  such  good  hands.  It  is  about  this  very  child, 
Mary/'  he  added,  "  that  I  have  come  to  talk  with 
you.  What  is  to  be  done  with  her?" 

"  I  don't  know/'  returned  Mrs.  Wellford.  "  She 
must  have  a  home  somewhere  among  us.  The  dear 
child  !  Anybody  could  love  her.  Have  you  thought 
of  taking  her  ?" 

"  If  I  were  to  consult  my  own  feelings  and  wishes, 
I  should  adopt  her  as  my  own  child  immediately. 
But  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  do  this,  and  therefore 
must  not  think  about  it.  I  am  willing,  however,  to 
be  at  the  entire  cost  of  her  maintenance  and  educa- 
tion, if  you  will  undertake  the  care  of  her.  What 
I  can  do,  I  will  do  with  all  my  heart." 

"We  have  already  talked  seriously  about  add- 


108  THE  TWO  ACTS;  OR, 


ing  Aggy  to  our  little  household/'  replied  Mrs. 
Wellford.  "  And  if  no  one  else  offers  to  do  so,  we 
will  keep  her,  and  do  for  her  the  same  as  if  she  were 
our  own.  It  will  bring  more  care  and  anxiety  for 
me,  which,  as  my  health  is  not  good,  will  be  felt; 
but  if  not  better  provided  for,  it  will  be  my  duty 
to  take  the  place  of  her  mother,  and  I  will  assume 
the  office  cheerfully." 

"  But  at  my  charge/'  said  Mr.  Lionel. 

"  No/'  replied  Mrs.  Wellford.  "  A  mother  ac- 
cepts no  pay  for  her  duty.  It  is  a  labour  of  love, 
and  brings  its  own  sweet  reward.  Though  Provi- 
dence has  not  given  us  wealth,  yet  we  have  enough, 
and  I  think  as  much  to  spare  as  this  dear  child 
will  need.  For  your  kind  wishes  and  intentions  for 
Aggy,  I  will  thank  you  in  her  stead.  I  thought, 
perhaps,  as  you  had  no  children,  that  you  might 
wish  to  adopt  her;  but  as  this  cannot  be,  it  will 
doubtless  fall  to  our  lot." 

Mr.  Lionel  went  home  feeling  less  satisfied  with 
his  wife's  spirit  and  temper — so  strongly  contrasted 
as  it  was  with  that  of  Mrs.  Wellford — than  he  had 
felt  for  a  long  time. 

"  She  will  have  her  reward,"  he  murmured  to 
himself,  "  and,  as  she  said,  justly,  it  will  be  sweet." 
This  was  in  allusion  to  Mrs.  Wellford,  who  had  called 
the  mother' s  duty  she  was  about  assuming,  a  labour 
of  love. 

Little  Aggy  scarcely  felt  the  loss  of  her  parent. 


THEY    HAVE   THEIR   REWARD.  109 


The  love  she  had  borne  her  mother  was  transferred 
to  her  aunt,  as  Mrs.  Wellford  was  called,  so  early 
that  no  void  was  left  in  her  heart.  It  took  but  a 
little  while  for  each  member  of  the  family  to  feel 
that  Aggy  had  a  right  to  be  among  them,  and  for 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wellford  to  love  her  as  their  own 
child. 

Years  rolled  by,  and  brought  many  unlooked-for 
changes  both  to  Mrs.  Lionel  and  Mrs.  Wellford. 
Both  had  been  subjected  to  afflictions  and  reverses- 
— the  severest,  perhaps,  that  ordinarily  fall  to  the- 
lot  of  any — for  both  were  widows,  and  both  friendless 
and  poor.  As  for  Mrs.  Weliford,  she  had  not  only 
lost  her  husband,  but  all  her  children  were  taken,, 
and  she  was  left  alone  in  the  world  with  the  orphan 
Aggy.  But  she,  grown  into  a  lovely  young  woman , 
nestled  closer  to  her  side  and  into  her  very  bosom  *T 
though  not  with  a  helpless,  but  in  a  sustaining  spirit  ... 
Death,  though  he  had  robbed  Mrs.  Wellford  of  much, 
had  still  left  her  much.  Bereaved  as  she  had  been, 
she  was  neither  lonely  nor  sad.  How  different  was 
the  case  of  Mrs.  Lionel !  After  the  death  of  her 
husband,  and  the  total  loss  of  her  property,  she  fell 
back  at  once  from  her  advance  position  in  the  social 
rank,  into  neglect,  obscurity,  and  want.  For  the 
very  means  of  subsistence,  exertion  became  necessa- 
ry. But  what  could  she  do  for  a  living,  who  had, 
in  her  whole  life,  done  scarcely  a  useful  thing — who 
had  been  little  better  than  a  drone  in  tho  social  hive? 

IX.— 10 


110  THE  TWO   ACTS;   OR, 


Nothing!  Or,  if  there  was  small  ability,  there  was 
pride  enough  remaining  to  prevent  its  exercise. 

After  her  husband's  death,  which  followed  shortly 
after  the  reverses  that  stripped  him  of  all  worldly 
possessions,  Mrs.  Lionel  retired  into  the  family  of  a 
poor  relative,  who  had  been  little  thought  of  in 
brighter  days,  and  who,  although  she  did  not  wish 
to  receive  her,  could  not  close  her  door  in  her  face. 
A  sad  spectacle  she  was.  Shut  up  in  the  little 
chamber  that  was  assigned  her,  she  never  went  out, 
and  only  met  the  family  she  was  burdening  with  her 
presence  at  the  table,  and  then  with  an  aspect  so 
gloomy  and  reserved,  as  jto  throw  a  chill  over  the 
feelings  of  all. 

For  a  short  period,  Mrs.  Lionel  paid  a  small  sum 
for  her  board,  but  no  very  long  time  passed  before 
all  her  money  was  exhausted,  and  she  became  abso- 
lutely dependent  upon  a  poor  woman  distantly  re- 
lated to  her,  whose  only  means  of  support  was  her 
personal  labour  and  that  of  her  daughter. 

After  the  death  of  her  husband  and  children, 
Mrs.  Wellford,  who  was  left  quite  as  poor  as  Mrs. 
Lionel,  began  to  look  around  her  for  some  means 
of  securing  an  income  for  herself  and  Agnes,  whom 
she  loved,  now  that  all  the  rest  were  gone,  with  a 
tenderness  that  equalled  the  sum  of  her  love  for  all. 
But  what  to  do,  was  a  difficult  thing  to  determine. 
As  a  young  girl,  her  education  had  been  very  plain; 
she  could  not,  therefore,  resort  to  teaching  in  any 


THEY    HAVE   THEIR   REWARD.  Ill 


branch,  for  she  had  riot  the  requisite  ability.  Sew- 
ing always  gave  her  a  severe  pain  in  the  breast  anl 
side,  so  that  whatever  might  be  her  skill  in  needle- 
work, she  was  precluded  from  resorting  to  it  as  a 
means  of  obtaining  money. 

"  I  think, "  said  she  to  Agnes,  after  looking  at 
the  subject  in  every  possible  light,  "  that  there  is 
but  one  thing  left  for  me  to  do/' 

"  What  is  that,  aunt  ?"  inquired  Agnes. 

a  Taking  a  few  boarders.   I  could  attend  to  them." 

"  It  will  be  very  hard  work/'  suggested  the  niecer 
"  too  hard  for  you.  No,  no,  aunt,  that  will  not  do; 
look  what  a  slave's  life  Mrs.  Minturn  has.  Don't 
think  of  it." 

"I  must  do  something,  you  know,  Aggy  dear; 
in  a  little  while,  all  our  money  will  be  gone.  I  have 
thought  of  every  thing,  but  my  mind  comes  back  to 
this  at  last.  I  don't  like  the  thought  of  it,  but  it 
is  right  for  me  to  exert  myself,  and  I  must  do  so 
without  a  murmur." 

"  Haven't  you  yet  thought  of  any  thing  that  I 
can  do?"  asked  Agnes,  in  a  cheerful  voice.  "  I  am 
sure  that  I  can  do  something,"  she  added,  confident- 
ly ;  "  and  I  am  younger,  and  have  better  health  than 
YOU  have." 

u  I  cannot  think,  my  dear  child,"  said  Mrs.  Well- 
ford,  with  much  earnestness  in  her  voice,  "  of  your 
being -exposed  to  the  world's  rough  contact;  you 
are  too  young." 


112  THE   TWO   ACTS;    OR, 


"  The  contact  you  seem  so  to  dread  cannot  hurt 
me,  aunt/'  returned  Agnes.  "  To  the  pure,  all 
things  are  pure.  If  I  have  in  me  a  right  spirit,  the 
world  cannot  hurt  me." 

"  But  I  cannot  bear  the  thought  of  seeing  you, 
in  the  very  spring-time  of  life,  when  all  along  your 
path  should  grow  up  flowers  to  fill  the  air  with  per- 
fume, chained  like  a  slave  to  the  car  of  labour.  No, 
no,  Aggy,  it  must  not  be;  I  can  do  all  that  is  re- 
quired. If  I  fail,  then  it  will  be  time  enough  to 
call  upon  you  for  aid." 

Pride  as  well  as  affection  reigned  in  the  breast 
of  Mrs.  Wellford.  She  could  not  bear  the  thought 
of  seeing  Agnes  engaged  in  any  kind  of  labour  for 
money.  She  was  fully  capable  of  giving  instruction 
in  many  things,  and  of  securing  thereby  a  fair  in- 
come ;  but  her  aunt  would  not  hear  to  her  seeking 
for  employment. 

"Aunt  is  wrong,"  said  Agnes  to  herself,  when 
alone,  soon  after  the  interview,  in  which  Mrs.  Well- 
ford  declared  it  as  her  belief  that  the  only  thing  left 
for  her  to  do  was  to  take  a  few  boarders.  "  I  ought 
not  to  see  her  do  this."  She  sat  thoughtful  for  a 
few  moments,  and  then  added  aloud — "And  I  will 
not  see  her  do  it.  I  have  received  every  thing  from 
her,  and  now  is  the  time  for  me  to  make  some  re- 
turn. But  what  shall  I  do?  Where  shall  I  seek 
for  employment  ?" 

Half  an  hour  after  she  had  asked  herself  these 


THEY   HAVE   THEIR   REWARD.  US 


questions  so  earnestly,  Agnes  picked  up  a  newspaper 
and  the  first  thing  that  met  her  eyes  was  an  adver- 
tisement for  a  person  to  give  lessons  in  music  and 
one  or  two  modern  languages  to  three  young  ladies, 
for  which  a  liberal  compensation  would  be  paid. 
Without  saying  a  word  to  her  aunt,  Agnes  put  on 
her  things  and  went  to  the  place  mentioned  in  the 
advertisement.  The  house  before  which  she  paused 
was  a  very  large  one,  in  a  fashionable  part  of  the 
city;  every  thing  around  it  indicated  a  wealthy 
owner.  For  a  few  moments,  she  felt  timid,  and 
hesitated  about  presenting  herself;  but  she  soon 
regained  her  self-possession,  and  made  the  applica- 
tion for  which  she  had  come. 

A  middle-aged  woman,  of  mild  and  ladylike  de- 
portment, met  her  on  being  shown  into  one  of  the 
apartments  of  the  house. 

"  I  believe  you  advertised  for  a  teacher/'  said 
Agnes,  speaking  in  a  low,  trembling  voice.  She 
found  herself  more  agitated  than  she  had  expect- 
ed. 

"We  did/'  replied  the  lady,  "and  have  already 
received  several  applications,  though  none  of  those 
who  have  answered  the  advertisement  suit  us  in  all 
respects.  And  I  am  afraid  that  we  shall  hardly  find 
all  that  we  desire  in  you." 

There  was  nothing  in  the  way  this  was  said  to 
hurt  the  feelings  of  Agnes,  but  rather  to  make  her 

feel  more  free  to  speak. 

10* 


114  THE  TWO  ACTS:  OR, 


"  Why  do  you  think  I  will  not  suit  ?"  she  asked, 
looking  earnestly  into  the  lady's  face. 

"  Because  you  are  too  young.  You  cannot  be 
over  seventeen  years  of  age." 

"  I  am  nineteen/'  returned  Agnes. 

"  But  even  that  is  too  young.  We  wish  a  person 
of  some  experience,  and  of  the  first  ability.  I  will 
not  question  your  ability,  but  you  certainly  cannot 
have  much  experience  in  teaching.  Have  you  ever 
given  lessons  in  music  ?" 

"  Not  yet ;  but  I  wish  to  do  so,  and  believe  that 
I  could  give  satisfaction/' 

"  Then  you  have  never  been  engaged  in  teaching 
at  all  r 

"  No,  never." 

"  I  hardly  think  you  would  suit  us." 

The  countenance  of  Agnes  fell  so  suddenly  that 
the  lady's  sympathies  were  awakened,  and  she  said, 
;*  Are  you  very  desirous  of  securing  a  situation  as 
teacher?" 

"  Desirous  above  all  things,"  replied  Agnes,  with 
much  earnestness. 

The  lady  continued  to  ask  question  after  question, 
until  she  understood  fully  what  was  in  the  young 
girl's  mind.  She  then  appreciated  her  more  highly, 
although  she  did  not  believe  her  fully  qualified  to 
give  the  instruction  that  was  desired.  Agnes,  who 
gained  confidence  the  more  she  conversed  with  the 
lady,  at  length  urged  that  she  might  have  a  trial. 


THEY  HAVE   THEIR  REWARD.  115 


"  But  suppose,  after  we  give  you  a  trial,  that  yon 
do  not  suit  us ;  we  shall  find  it  hard  to  send  you 
away." 

The  force  of  this  objection  was  fully  appreciated 
by  the  lady  when  she  uttered  it,  for  already  she  felt 
so  drawn  toward  the  young  girl  with  whom  she  waa 
holding  the  interview,  that  her  feelings  were  fast 
getting  the  control  of  her  judgment. 

"  I  am  sure  I  will  suit  you/'  replied  Agnes,  "  for 
I  will  give  the  most  untiring  attention  to  my  duties/' 

The  lady  looked  at  her  beautiful  young  face,  lit 
up  with  the  earnestness  of  a  true  purpose,  and  felt 
as  she  had  never  before  felt  for  a  stranger.  She 
addressed  her  a  few  words  in  French,  to  which 
Agnes  replied  in  the  same  language. 

"  Your  accent  is  certainly  very  correct.  Now  let 
me  hear  you  perform  something  on  the  piano,"  she 
said. 

Agnes  went  to  the  instrument,  and,  after  select- 
ing a  piece  of  music,  sat  down  and  ran  her  fingers 
gracefully  over  the  keys.  The  lady  stood  by  to 
listen.  Soon  the  young  girl  was  in  the  midst  of  a 
beautiful  but  familiar  composition,  which  she  exe- 
cuted with  unusual  taste  and  brilliancy.  Her  touch 
was  exquisite,  and  at  the  same  time  full,  and,  where 
required,  bold  and  confident. 

"Admirable!"  she  heard  uttered  in  a  low  voice 
just  behind  her,  as  she  struck  the  last  note  in  the 
piece.  It  was  not  the  voice  of  a  woman. 


116  THE  TWO  ACTS;  OR, 


She  started  and  turned  quickly.  More  auditors 
than  she  had  supposed  were  present.  A  young  man 
and  three  beautiful  young  girls  stood  listening  be- 
hind their  mother;  they  had  been  attracted  from  an 
adjoining  room  by  the  music,  so  far  superior  to  any 
thing  ordinarily  heard.  A  deep  crimson  overspread 
the  sweet  young  face  of  Agnes,  heightening  up  every 
native  charm.  The  young  man  instantly  retired, 
and  the  mother  introduced  her  to  her  daughters, 
who  were  in  love  with  so  lovely  an  instructress,  and 
threw  their  voices  at  once  in  her  favour.  These 
voices  but  seconded  the  mother's  prepossessions. 

"  Nothing  has  yet  been  said  about  compensation/7 
remarked  the  lady  to  Agnes,  after  she  had  requested 
the  girls  to  leave  them  again  alone.  "  We  are  will- 
ing to  pay  liberally,  if  we  can  get  the  person  we 
want.  At  present,  I  feel  strongly  in  favour  of  giv-. 
ing  you  a  trial.  If,  after  thinking  over  the  subject, 
it  is  concluded  to  do  so,  your  salary  will  be  four 
hundred  dollars.  Do  you  think  that  will  meet  your 
wishes  ?" 

"  Fully,"  replied  Agnes,  with  an  emotion  that  she 
could  scarcely  conceal.  The  sum  was  larger  than 
she  had  expected. 

"  Of  course,  I  would  like  to  be  at  home  every 
night  with  my  aunt/'  said  she. 

"  To  that  we  should  make  no  serious  objection. 
To-morrow  morning  I  will  be  prepared  to  give  you 
an  answer." 


THEY   HAVE   THEIR  REWARD.  117 


Agnes  retired  with  a  heart  full  of  hope,  yet  trem- 
bling lest  something  should  prevent  the  engagement 
she  was  so  eager  to  make.  She  said  nothing  to  her 
aunt,  who,  bent  on  taking  boarders,  started  out  on 
the  ensuing  morning  to  look  for  a  house  suited  for 
that  purpose.  As  soon  as  she  was  gone,  Agnes  went 
with  a  trembling  heart  to  hear  the  decision  that  was 
to  be  made  in  favour  or  against  her  application.  It 
was  favourable. 

On  going  home,  she  found  that  her  aunt  had  not 
yet  returned,  nor  did  she  come  back  for  two  hours; 
then  she  was  so  worn  down  with  fatigue,  that  she 
had  to  go  to  bed.  A  cup  of  tea  revived  her;  but 
her  head  ached  so  badly,  that  she  did  not  get  up 
until  late  in  the  afternoon,  when  she  was  better. 

"  I  have  found  a  house,  Aggy,"  said  she,  as  soon 
as  she  felt  like  alluding  to  the  subject,  "  that  will 
just  suit.  The  owner  is  to  give  me  an  answer  about 
it  to-morrow/' 

"  If  looking  for  a  house  has  made  you  sick  enough 
to  go  to  bed,  aunt/'  returned  Agnes,  "  how  can  you 
expect  to  bear  the  fatigue  of  keeping  boarders  in  the 
house  after  you  have  taken  it  ?  You  must  not  think 
of  it.  In  two  good  rooms,  at  a  light  rent,  we  can 
live  very  comfortably,  and  at  an  expense  much 
lighter  than  we  have  at  present  to  bear." 

"  Yes,  Agnes,  comfortably  enough,  if  we  had  the 
ability  to  meet  that  expense ;  but  we  have  not.  You 
know  that  there  is  no  income/' 


118  THE  TWO   ACTS;   OR, 


"  There  has  been  none,  but" — 

«  But  what,  dear?"  Mrs.  Wellford  saw  that 
there  was  something  more  than  usual  in  the  mind 
of  Agnes. 

"  Forgive  me,  dear  aunt,"  said  the  affectionate 
girl,  throwing  her  arms  around  the  neck  of  her  rela- 
tive ;  "  but  I  cannot  see  you,  at  your  time  of  life 
and  in  ill-health,  compelled  to  toil  as  you  propose. 
I  have,  therefore,  applied  for  and  secured  a  situation 
iu  a  private  family,  as  a  teacher  of  music  and  lan- 
guages to  three  young  ladies,  for  which  I  am  to 
receive  a  salary  of  four  hundred  dollars  a  year." 

While  Mrs.  Wellford  was  looking  for  a  house, 
and  after  she  had  found  one,  the  fatigue  and  pain 
she  suffered  led  her  more  fully  to  realize  than  she 
had  done  before,  the  great  labour,  with  a  doubtful 
result,  that  she  was  about  taking  upon  herself.  She 
was,  therefore,  just  in  the  state  of  mind  to  receive 
the  unexpected  communication  made  by  Agnes. 

"  You  are  a  good  girl,"  she  merely  replied,  kiss- 
ing her  as  she  spoke. 

"  And  you  do  not  object  ?"  eagerly  asked  the 
niece. 

"  How  can  I  ?"  responded  Mrs.  Wellford,  leaning 
her  head  down  upon  the  shoulder  of  Agnes.  In  a 
few  moments  she  said,  as  she  looked  up,  with  tears 
glittering  on  her  eyelashes — "  May  Heaven  reward 
you !"  And  turning  away,  she  left  Agnes  to  her 
own  happy  thoughts. 


THEY   HAVE   THEIR   REWARD.  110 


Six  months  from  this  time,  as  Mrs.  Lionel  sat 
alone  in  her  room,  gloomy  and  sad,  the  woman  with 
whom  she  was  living,  and  upon  whom  she  still  laid 
herself  a  heavy  burden,  came  in  where  she  was,  and 
said — "  Did  you  know  that  your  niece,  Agnes  Well- 
ford,  was  married  yesterday  to  a  son  of  one  of  the 
richest  men  in  town  V9 

"  No ;  it  can't  be  I"  quickly  replied  Mrs.  Lionel. 
"  Mr.  Wellford  died  not  worth  a  dollar,  and  his 
widow  has  been  as  poor  as  poverty  ever  since." 

"  No,  not  quite  that,"  said  the  woman.  "Agnes 
has  supported  her  comfortably  by  teaching  music. 
I  heard  the  whole  story  this  morning.  Mrs.  Well- 
ford  wanted  to  keep  boarders,  but  Agnes  wouldn't 
hear  to  it,  and,  against  ner  aunt's  wishes,  went  -out 
and  applied  for  a  place  as  teacher  to  three  young 
ladies  in  a  wealthy  family,  for  which  she  was  to 
receive  a  salary  of  four  hundred  dollars  a  year.  She 
had  not  taught  long  before  the  brother  of  the  young 
ladies  fell  in  love  with  her,  to  which  no  very  strong 
objection  was  made  by  his  friends ;  and  now  they 
we  married." 

"And  what  of  Mrs.  Wellford?"  was  eagerly  in- 
quired. 

"  They  go  to  housekeeping  forthwith,  and  Mrs. 
Wellford  is  to  live  with  them." 

Mrs.  Lionel  clasped  her  hands  together,  and  sink- 
ing back  in  her  chair,  murmured — "  Oh;  what  an 
error  I  committed !" 


120  THE   LOTTERY   TICKET. 


"  How?"  inquired  the  woman.     But  Mrs.  Lionel 
did  not  answer  the  question. 

She  had  her  reward,  and  Mrs.  Wellford  had  hers 


THE  LOTTERY  TICKET. 


Two  young  storekeepers,  whose  capital  in  trade 
was  rather  small,  and  who  daily  saw  excellent  op- 
portunities for  making  money  pass  unimproved  for 
want  of  the  means  to  embrace  them,  sat  conversing 
about  their  future  prospects.  Their  names  were 
Felix  Granger  and  Ellis  Day. 

"  If  I  could  only  raise  five  or  six  thousand  dollars 
somewhere,"  remarked  the  former,  a  I  could  double 
the  sum  in  two  years." 

"  So  could  I,  easily,"  returned  Day.  "  But  that 
amount  of  money  is  not  to  be  picked  up  readily. 
One  thing,  I  am  making  a  good  living  and  slowly 
improving  my  condition,  and  I  suppose  I  ought  to 
be  content.  In  the  end,  if  all  goes  on  as  it  has 
begun,  I  shall  accumulate,  I  hope,  enough  to  live 
upon." 

"  It's  too  slow  work  for  me.  I  feel  like  a  man 
trying  to  run  with  clogs  upon  his  feet.  The  fact 
is,  I  must  have  more  capital  from  somewhere.  I'll 


THE   LOTTERY   TICKET.  121 


tell  you  what  I've  more  than  half  made  up  my  mind 
to  do/' 

"What?" 

"  Buy  a  ticket  in  the  lottery,  and  try  my  luck 
Prizes  may  be  drawn  every  day,  and  why  may  not 
I  meet  with  good  fortune  ?" 

Day  shook  his  head. 

"  What's  your  objection  V  asked  Granger. 

"  I  don't  believe  that  any  good  ever  came  of  med- 
dling with  lotteries/' 

"Why?" 

"In  the  first  place,  the  chances  are  all  against 
drawing  a  prize.  Not  more  than  one  in  a  hundred 
is  successful;  and  yet  the  ninety-nine  who  draw 
blanks  are  just  as  full  of  hope  for  the  prize  as  he  who 
draws  it,  and  are  just  as  much  diverted  from  right 
business  thoughts  during  the  time  that  elapses  be- 
tween the  purchase  of  the  ticket  and  the  drawing 
of  the  lottery.  The  loss  of  the  drawer  of  the  blank 
is  not  alone  the  loss  of  his  money.  He  loses  in  his 
business,  often  seriously,  from  the  diversion  of 
thought  that  must  accompany  the  suspense  he  is 
doomed  for  a  time  to  feel.  Instead  of  applying  him- 
self diligently  to  the  doing  of  what  his  hands  find  to 
do  in  his  daily  employments,  he  is  thinking  about 
the  use  he  will  make  of  his  money,  if  he  should  be 
so  fortunate  as  to  draw  a  prize.  And  in  the  second 
place,  if  he  should  succeed  in  getting  a  lucky  num- 
ber, he  will  be  almost  certain  to  lose  all  that  he 

tx.— u 


122  THE   LOTTERY  TICKET. 


has  gained,  and  more  besides,  in  trying  for  another 
and  a  higher  prize." 

"  Trust  me  for  that,"  returned  Granger.  "  Let 
me  once  get  my  fingers  upon  five,  ten,  or  twenty 
thousand  dollars,  and  you  won't  find  me  meddling 
with  lottery  tickets." 

"I  wouldn't  trust  any  man,"  said  Day. 

"  Not  even  yourself?" 

"  No,  not  even  myself." 

"  Wouldn't  you  buy  a  ticket  if  you  knew  you 
would  draw  a  prize  ?" 

"As  that  is  supposing  what  cannot  be,  I  will 
answer  neither  in  the  affirmative  nor  negative.  But 
my  own  impression  is,  that  money  obtained  by 
means  of  lotteries  never  does  any  good." 

"Why  not?" 

"  For  this  reason :  Money  is  a  standard  of  value, 
and  passes  in  society  as  a  representative  of  some 
kind  of  property;  which  is  a  thing  in  itself  useful 
to  mankind — as  houses,  lands,  produce,  manufac- 
tures, etc.  When  we  receive  money  in  business,  it 
represents  a  benefit  we  have  conferred  upon  another. 
But  when  money  comes  through  a  lottery,  it  docs 
not  correspond  to  any  benefit  conferred,  but  is  actually 
the  correspondent  of  injury  done  to  others ;  for  hun- 
dreds have  lost,  that  one  might  gain.  If  a  man  in 
business  accumulate  ten  thousand  dollars,  that  sum 
has  been  received  from  perlaps  more  than  a  thou- 
sand different  sources,  in  return  for  wants  sup- 


THE  LOTTERY  TICKEt.          123 


plied;  but,  if  a  man  draw  ten  thousand  dollars  in  a 
lottery,  he  has  received  from  a  large  number  of  per- 
sons their  one,  or  two,  or  ten  dollars,  without  making 
them  any  return.  Nothing  has  been  produced;  no 
want  supplied.  Society  has  been  in  no  way  benefited, 
but  actually  injured.  The  whole  proceeding,  from 
beginning  to  end,  has  been  disorderly  and  detri- 
mental. And  I  cannot  but  believe  that  the  money 
so  obtained  will  prove  more  a  curse  than  a  blessing  : 
and  this,  because  I  hold  that  all  evils  in  society 
react  with  pain  against  those  who  practise  them/' 

"  Give  me  ten  thousand  dollars  and  I  will  run  all 
such  risks/'  said  Granger.  "  Somebody  will  get  the 
prize,  and  I  might  as  well  have  it  as  any  one.  Come ! 
Join  me  in  a  ticket.  I  have  been  looking  over  a 
first-rate  scheme,  which  is  to  be  drawn  day  after  to- 
morrow." 

But  Day  shook  his  head,  and  said  "  No,"  firmly. 

"  Well,  if  you  won't,  I  will  try  my  luck  alone. 
The  tickets  are  only  five  dollars." 

That  day,  Granger  bought  a  ticket.  A  dozen  times 
before  the  drawing  of  the  lottery  did  he  call  in  to 
see  his  friend  Day,  and  as  often  did  he  mention  what 
was  uppermost  in  his  mind — the  prize  he  hoped  to 
draw. 

"  If  I  get  ten  thousand,  I  will  lend  you  two  or  three 
thousand  to  give  you  a  start,"  said  he,  on  the  day 
before  the  drawing  was  to  take  place.  This  waa 
spoken  in  apparent  jest,  but  he  really  felt  in  earnest. 


124  THE   LOTTERY   TICKET. 


I>ay  could  not  help  smiling. 

"  You  may  laugh/'  returned  the  other,  "  but 
when  you  see  me  with  ten  or  fifteen  thousand  dol- 
lars in  hand,  you  will  not  think  me  quite  the  fool 
you  now  do." 

"  If  you  should  be  so  lucky,  I  prophesy  that 
your  ten  of  twenty  thousand  dollars  will  do  you  no 
good  in  the  end;  that  in  ten  or  twenty  years  you 
will  be  no  better,  but  worse  off,  in  consequence  of 
your  prize/* 

"I'll  risk  if 

"  No  doubt  you  are  perfectly  willing  to  do  so." 

"  And  so  would  you  be." 

"  I  shall  keep  out  of  temptation,  at  least,  by  not 
buying  a  ticket/7  replied  Day.  "  If  I  could  get 
more  capital  in  my  business,  in  a  perfectly  legitimate 
way,  I  would  be  glad  to  do  so,  for  then  I  could  make 
larger  and  more  profitable  operations.  But  as  I  see 
no  approved  mode  of  obtaining  this  capital,  I  must 
be  content  to  plod  on  as  I  am  now  going.  It  will 
all  come  out  right  in  the  end,  I  doubt  not." 

"  111  furnish  you  with  more  capital  in  a  few 
days,"  said  Granger,  laughingly. 

"Very  well.  I'll  give  you  good  security  and 
pay  you  a  fair  interest,"  was  the  laughing  reply. 

"  But  won't  you  be  afraid  of  money  drawn  in  a 
lottery  ?" 

"  No,  not  to  borrow  it.  But  I  would  be  afraid 
to  draw  it." 


THB  LOTTERY  TICKET.         125 


"  Dividing  a  hair  between  north  and  north-west 
sides — a  distinction  without  a  difference." 

"  To  me  it  is  not.  I  can  see  a  very  great  dif 
ference." 

On  the  next  day,  late  in  the  afternoon,  Felix 
Granger  came  hurriedly  into  the  store  of  Ellis  Day. 
His  manner  was  flurried;  he  had  a  look  of  wild  elation. 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  so  !"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  thick 
voice.  "  Didn't  I  say  that  I  would  draw  a  prize  !" 

"  You  did/'  returned  Day,  calmly. 

"  And  I  said  true.  I've  got  the  twenty-five  thou- 
sand dollar  prize  as  certain  as  death." 

"Indeed!" 

te  True  as  preaching." 

"  Twenty-five  thousand  dollars  !" 

"  Ay !  Twenty-five  thousand  dollars  !  Think  of 
that,  friend  Day !" 

And  he  caught  the  hand  of  his  friend,  and  almost 
crushed  it  in  a  vice-like  grip. 

"  A' n't  I  a  lucky  dog  ?  I  always  said  I  was  born 
under  a  fortunate  star;  though,  I  confess,  that  I  had 
to  wait  long  before  the  right  aspect  came.  But  all 
in  good  time  !  I've  no  somplaint  to  make.  Twenty- 
five  thousand  dollars  !  Just  think  of  that !  Won't 
I  do  business  now  with  a  rush?  Won't  I  show  some 
of  the  sleepy  ones  in  the  trade  a  specimen  of  tall 
walking?  Won't  I?" 

And  for  very  want  of  breath,  the  excited  young 

man  paused. 

11* 


126  THE   LOTTERY   TICKET. 


"  What  do  you  think  of  lotteries  now  ?"  he  asked, 
after  he  had  recovered  himself  a  little.  "  A' n't  you 
tempted  to  try  your  luck  ?" 

"I  think  of  them  as  I  always  did.  I  believe  I 
shall  not  try  my  luck.  I  might  be  so  unfortunate 
as  to  draw  a  prize." 

"  Are  you  crazy,  Ellis  Day  ?" 

"  Perhaps  I  am.  But,  seriously,  I  would  rather 
go  on  as  I  am  going  than  draw  a  prize  of  twenty 
thousand  dollars.  For  slow  and  sure  will  bring  all 
out  right  in  the  end;  but  with  twenty  thousand 
dollars  thrown  suddenly  into  my  lap,  I  might,  and 
no  doubt  would,  be  tempted  to  dash  ahead  at  a 
rate  so  rapid  as  to  be  thrown  headlong  from  my 
course,  and  be  worse  off  than  I  was  when  I  began 
the  world  with  hope,  energy,  industry,  and  five  hun- 
dred dollars  in  my  pocket." 

"  And  this  you  predict  for  me  ?" 

"  No.  I  predict  nothing  for  you.  I  hope  you 
will  be  wise  and  prudent  in  the  use  of  the  large  sum 
of  money  that  has  come  into  your  hands." 

"  Never  fear  for  me.  I  know  what  I  am  about. 
Twenty-five  thousand  dollars  is  not  a  sum  large 
enough  to  turn  my  brain." 

It  is  worthy  of  remark,  that  Granger  said  nothing 
more  about  lending  his  friend  a  few  thousand  dol- 
lars, as  he  had  proposed  in  anticipation  of  a  smaller 
prize  than  the  one  he  had  drawn.  Not  that  he  had 
forgotten  his  promise,  voluntarily  made,  but  ways 


THE   LOTTERY   TICKET.  127 


in  which  he  could  use  the  whole  amount  of  his  now 
greatly  increased  capital  immediately  presented 
themselves,  and,  instead  of  feeling  that  he  had  any 
thing  to  spare,  he  felt  that  his  operations  would  still 
be  restricted  within  limits  that  it  would  be  desirable 
to  pass. 

When  the  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  were  paid 
to  Granger,  which  was  not  until  some  weeks  after 
the  drawing  of  the  lottery,  he  immediately  laid  out 
one  hundred  dollars  in  tickets  in  another  flattering 
scheme,  intending,  if  he  drew  any  thing,  to  keep  his 
promise  to  Day,  which  he  now  regretted  having 
been  weak  enough  to  make.  He  drew  about  fifty  dol- 
lars— re-invested  that  in  the  same  way — drew  blanks, 
and  gave  up  lotteries.  In  this  he  was  wiser  than 
some  men.  Of  course,  Day  did  not  get  the  promised 
assistance  in  his  business. 

Twenty-five  thousand  dollars  in  cash  at  once  en- 
larged the  credit  of  Granger  from  seventy-five  thou- 
sand to  a  hundred  thousand  dollars.  All  his  busi- 
ness operations  became  greatly  extended,  and  he 
grew  into  a  man  of  importance,  both  in  his  own  eyes 
and  the  eyes  of  others,  quite  rapidly. 

Whenever  we  begin  to  think  highly  of  ourselves 
from  any  cause,  but  especially  when  this  increased 
self-estimation  springs  from  the  mere  increased 
amount  of  worldly  goods  that  may  happen  to  be 
possessed,  we  are  almost  sure  to  fall  into  error.  The 
first  error  committed  by  Granger  was  a  most  griev- 


128  THE  LOTTERY   TICKET. 


ous  one.  When  he  drew  the  great  prize,  he  was 
under  engagement  of  marriage  with  the  daughter  of 
a  widow-lady  named  Biker,  whose  income  was  small, 
and  who  was  unknown  in  fashionable  society.  The 
mother  and  daughter  lived  humbly,  and  all  their 
time  was  usefully  employed.  Emma  Biker  had 
received  a  good  education,  and  was  in  every  way  the 
equal,  in  mental  culture,  of  the  young  man  who  had 
sought  her  hand. 

Granger  mentioned  to  Emma  the  fact  that  he  had 
purchased  a  ticket,  and  talked  of  what  he  was  going 
to  do  in  case  he  drew  a  prize.  When  the  prize  came, 
he  hurried  off  to  see  her  and  tell  of  his  good  fortune, 
the  news  of  which  she  received  with  calmness,  yet 
evident  pleasure. 

For  a  month,  the  young  man  continued  his  visits 
as  of  old,  and  felt  and  acted  toward  Emma  as  his 
affianced  bride.  After  that,  the  idea  of  obtaining 
a  rich  wife  entered  his  mind.  It  was  just  as  easy 
now,  it  occurred  to  him,  to  get  a  wife  with  twenty 
or  thirty  thousand  dollars,  as  one  without  a  cent. 
But,  then,  he  was  under  an  engagement  of  mar- 
riage; this  thought  produced  an  unpleasant  sen- 
sation. 

The  idea  of  a  rich  wife  was  a  seed  in  the  young 
man's  mind,  and  toward  it  pride,  selfishness,  and 
a  love  of  money  flowed  as  principles  of  life,  first 
vitalizing  the  seed,  and  then  causing  it  to  grow, 
sending  down  its  roots  in  his  heart,  and  putting 


THE   LOTTERY   TICKET.  129 


forth  leaves  and  blossoms  that  ultimately  produced 
noxious  fruit. 

The  possession  of  twenty-five  thousand  dollars, 
the  enlargement  of  his  business,  and  the  reputation 
of  being  a  young  man  of  great  enterprise,  enabled 
Granger  to  form  new  acquaintances,  and  procured 
him  invitations  to  fashionable  parties  in  a  circle 
where  he  had  never  before  moved.  He  mingled 
with  young  ladies  of  higher  pretensions,  and  attrac- 
tions of  a  more  imposing  kind  than  such  as  were 
possessed  by  Emma  Biker.  Contrasts  unfavourable 
to  the  latter  were  constantly  taking  place  in  his 
mind ;  the  final  result  was  a  breach  of  the  engage- 
ment. This  was  the  first  and  the  worst  error  com- 
mitted by  the  young  man. 

The  effect  produced  upon  the  mind  of  Emma  was 
serious;  but  she  concealed,  as  much  as  possible,  from 
the  observation  of  every  one,  what  she  felt,  and,  in 
the  reflection  that  her  lover  had  proved  himself  un- 
worthy of  the  earnest  and  unselfish  affection  she  had 
borne  him,  sought  to  still  the  painful  throbbing  of 
her  heart,  and  banish  from  her  mind  the  image  that 
had  so  long  filled  it  with  light  and  happiness.  But 
she  had  a  hard  task  to  perform,  and  suffered  much 
before  it  was  fully  accomplished. 

A  year  from  this  time,  Granger  led  to  the  altar 
the  daughter  of  a  rich  merchant,  named  Collins,  who 
had  enough  pride,  extravagance,  and  love  of  show 
to  ruin  any  man  willing  to  be  influenced  by  her 


130  THE   LOTTERY   TICKET. 


Her  father  gave  her  a  brilliant  wedding-party,  and 
a  house  furnished  in  the  most  costly  manner.  The 
young  couple  started  in  life  with  some  eclat. 

No  very  long  time  elapsed  after  the  marriage,  be- 
fore Granger  discovered  that  his  wife  had  few,  if  any, 
domestic  qualities;  was  self-willed,  passionate,  full 
of  pride,  and  alarmingly  extravagant.  Such  a  thing 
as  consulting  his  tastes,  pleasures,  or  preferences, 
never  appeared  to  cross  her  mind.  In  spite  of  the 
effort  he  made  not  to  do  so,  he  could  not  help  con- 
trasting these  qualities  of  his  wife  with  the  very 
opposite  ones  that  were  possessed  in  such  gentle 
and  unobtrusive,  yet  sweet  perfection,  by  Emma 
Riker. 

Not  more  wisely  did  the  young  man  act  in  busi- 
ness. He  at  once  extended  all  his  operations  and 
entered  into  new  ones,  employing  every  dollar  of 
his  capital,  and  using  his  credit  to  very  nearly  its 
utmost  limit.  Under  this  system,  he  found  himself, 
by  the  end  of  a  year  or  two,  with  a  weight  upon  his 
shoulders  that  was  difficult  to  be  borne.  Notwith- 
standing this,  he  boasted  of  having  made  ten  thou- 
sand dollars  during  the  first  year,  and  twenty  thou- 
sand in  the  second  year  that  followed  his  improved 
fortunes ;  and  in  opening  the  business  of  his  third 
year,  he  sought  to  extend  still  further  all  his  opera- 
tions. Through  the  influence  of  his  father-in-law, 
Granger  got  into  the  direction  of  a  bank  that  was 
managed  by  a  clique  of  money-jobbers,  through 


THE   LOTTERY   TICKET.  131 


which  he  found  no  difficulty  in  passing  his  father-in- 
law's  notes  to  almost  any  amount;  and  Mr.  Collins 
used  the  paper  of  his  son-in-law  quite  as  freely. 
Thus  their  interests  and  fortunes  became  inextrica- 
bly blended. 

With  such  facilities,  and  the  credit  of  having 
made  a  great  deal  of  money  and  being  one  of  th« 
most  enterprising  merchants  in  the  city,  Granger 
was  able  to  do  a  very  heavy  business;  but,  from  the 
start,  he  had  over-traded,  and  was  always  driven  by, 
instead  of  driving  and  rightly  guiding  and  managing, 
his  business. 

In  the  mean  time,  Ellis  Day  was  going  on  as  of 
old,  quietly,  carefully,  and  safely.  His  operations 
were  never  very  large,  but  they  always  yielded  it 
fair  profit,  and  gradually  extended  every  year.  He 
had  never  been  able  to  get  an  advance  of  capital 
from  any  one :  but  this,  he  felt  inclined  to  think,  wa.s 
all  for  the  best.  More  capital  might  have  tempted 
him  into  water  that  was  beyond  his  depth. 

Some  time  after  Granger's  marriage,  Day,  whu 
had  met  Emma  Biker  a  year  or  two  previous,  waus 
again  thrown  into  her  company,  and  came  into  nearer 
association  with  her  than  before.  The  oftener  ho 
met  her,  the  more  he  liked  her;  and  it  was  not  long 
before  an  intimacy  sprang  up  between  them,  that 
ended  in  marriage ;  they  went  to  housekeeping  in  a 
neat,  respectable,  but  not  very  costly  style.  Emma 
made  a  prudent,  loving  wife,  and  grew  daily  more 


132  THE   LOTTERY   TICKET. 


dear  to  her  husband :  their  home  was  to  each  the 
pleasantest  place  on  earth. 

Different,  indeed,  was  the  home  of  Felix  Granger. 
All  day  he  was  in  the  rush,  hurry,  excitement,  and 
anxiety  of  business;  and  he  came  home  at  night 
fatigued,  and  with  a  weight  upon  his  breast :  but 
there  was  no  sweet  smile  there  to  fall  upon  him  like 
a  sunbeam,  no  loving  words  to  make  him  forget  the 
cares  of  the  day.  It  not  unfrequently  happened 
that  his  wife  was  out,  and  remained  out  the  whole 
evening ;  or  she  was  in  an  ill-humour  about  some- 
thing, and  hardly  answered  him  civilly,  if  he  spoke 
to  her;  or  she  buried  herself  from  tea-time  until  the 
hour  for  going  to  bed  in  the  pages  of  a  new  novel. 
To  her  husband  she  was,  at  no  time,  a  pleasant  com- 
panion. 

The  fact  was,  Mrs.  Granger  had  no  true  affection 
for  her  husband,  and  did  not  put  herself  out  to 
assume  a  virtue  she  did  not  possess.  Nor  were 
indifference,  coldness,  and  sullenness  the  only  ills 
which  the  husband  had  to  bear;  he  was  often  made 
to  feel  the  worse  irritation  of  direct  ill-temper,  that 
fretted  him  at  times  beyond  endurance,  and  led  to 
open  bickerings,  usually  brief,  but  violent  while 
they  lasted.  Thus  the  days  of  their  wedded  life 
passed  on,  and  they  were  often  bitter  days  to  both 
of  them. 

Five  years  from  the  period  at  which  the  marriage 
of  Ellis  Day  took  place,  he  removed  with  his  little 


THE   LOTTERY   TICKET.,  133 


family  into  a  beautiful  but  not  very  costly  dwelling, 
which  he  had  just  purchased.  His  business  had 
increased  steadily  and  safely,  for  he  had  applied  hi? 
mind  diligently,  from  the  first,  to  the  attainment  of 
a  thorough  knowledge  of  every  thing  that  related  in 
any  way  to  the  particular  branch  of  trade  in  which 
he  was  engaged.  It  was  rarely  that  he  made  a  mis- 
take in  purchasing,  or  bad  debts  in  selling.  As  his 
experience  became  more  matured  and  his  means 
enlarged,  he  was  able  to  increase  his  business  opera- 
tions safely,  and  to  reap  all  the  advantages  of  such 
an  increase.  The  capital  which  he  had  been  so 
desirous  of  obtaining  years  before,  would  have  been 
an  injury  to  him  rather  than  a  benefit.  This  he 
now  clearly  saw;  for  it  would  have  led  him  into  an 
enlargement  of  his  business,  while  his  experience 
was  yet  but  small,  and  might  have  involved  him  in 
difficulties  from  which  extrication  would  have  been 
almost  impossible. 

On  the  very  day  when  he  took  possession  of  his 
new  house,  for  which  he  had  a  clear  deed,  every 
dollar  of  the  purchase-money  having  been  paid 
without  disturbing  his  business  by  a  withdrawal  of 
capital,  both  Mr.  Collins  and  his  son-in-law  stopped 
payment,  the  former  with  obligations  out  for  three 
hundred  thousand  dollars,  and  the  latter  for  one 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand.  They  had  extended 
their  business  operations  and  stretched  their  credit, 
until  the  foundation  upon  which  they  stood  became 

ML— 12 


134  THE  LOTTERY  TICKET. 


too  weak  to  support  them.  The  father-in-law  was 
older,  shrewder,  and  less  scrupulous  than  Granger : 
he  took  care  to  save  something  from  the  wreck;  but 
the  latter  came  out  penniless,  and  with  a  heavy  debt 
hanging  over  him.  The  beautiful  house  and  rich 
furniture  that  had  been  a  part  of  his  wife's  marriage- 
portion  were  seized  and  sold  to  the  highest  bidder, 
and  he  turned  upon  the  world  with  a  family  of  three 
children,  having  scarcely  a  dollar  in  his  pocket. 

Instead  of  sympathy  from  his  wife,  in  the  sad  dis- 
aster that  had  befallen  him,  he  met  with  reproaches 
for  not  having  made  over  to  her  and  her  children 
the  house  and  furniture  she  had  brought  him,  and 
thus  reserved  a  home  for  his  family.  To  these  cruel 
reproaches,  the  disappointed,  broken-spirited  man 
had  nothing  to  reply;  he  felt  crushed  to  the  earth, 
and  without  the  strength"  to  lift  himself  up  again. 
He  had  fallen  from  so  high  a  position,  that  he  was 
nearly  disabled  by  the  concussion. 

Thrown  out  of  business,  turned  out  of  his  home, 
and  with  nothing  to  live  upon,  he  was  forced,  reluc- 
tantly, to  accept  the  constrained  offer  of  his  father- 
in-law  to  go  to  his  house  with  his  family  until  he 
could  get  something  to  do.  Naturally  independent 
in  his  feelings,  this  was  a  painful  trial,  especially  as 
there  was  no  real  cordiality  in  the  invitation,  and 
the  addition  of  his  family  to  that  of  Mr.  Collins 
was  evidently  felt  as  a  burden. 

Some  weeks  after  this  arrangement  had  been  en- 


THE  LOTTERY  TICKET,  135 


tered  upon,  and  at  a  time  when  it  was  chafing  him 
sorely,  Granger  called  in  to  see  his  old  friend  Day, 
to  solicit  from  him  a  vacant  clerkship  in  his  store. 
After  their  meeting,  Day  expressed  the  sincere  re- 
gret he  felt  at  the  disastrous  result  of  his  business. 
With  much  bitterness,  the  other  replied — 

"  Yes,  disastrous  enough ;  but  I  do  not  wonder 
at  it,  now  that  I  am  a  sane  man  again.  Ellis  Day, 
since  the  hour  I  drew  that  cursed  prize  in  the  lot- 
tery, I  have  been  beside  myself.  I  have  not  acted, 
in  a  single  instance,  with  the  wisdom  and  prudence 
of  a  man  whose  mind  was  well-balanced.  I  believe 
you  now ;  but  I  did  not  believe  you  when  you  told 
me  that  money  obtained  in  the  way  I  obtained 
twenty-five  thousand  dollars,  never  does  any  good. 
You  saw  how  it  would  be — you,  like  a  wise  man, 
could  foresee  the  evil ;  but  I,  like  a  fool,  passed  on, 
and  have  been  punished,  and  grievous  and  hard  to 
be  borne  is  that  punishment.  It  is  felt  by  me  in 
the  most  intimate  as  well  as  in  the  most  remote 
relations  of  life.  Ah,  my  friend,  your  patience,  pru- 
dence, and  willingness  to  wait  for  the  gently-flowing 
tide  that  bears  us  on  to  fortune,  have  met  the  just 
reward.  Like  you,  had  I  been  thus  prudent  and 
thus  willing  to  wait,  I  might  now  have  been  safely 
advancing  towards  wealth,  instead  of  being  penni- 
less, and  with  spirits  broken,  energy  gone,  and  the 
very  light  of  life  extinguished/' 

Granger  was  deeply  moved. 


136  THE  LOTTERY  TICKET. 

The  situation  he  asked  was  promptly  given  to 
him ;  but  the  salary  was  only  eight  hundred  dollars 
a  year.  This  small  sum  was  in  no  way  adequate  to 
the  wants  of  Mrs.  Granger ;  she  could  spend  it  her- 
self twice  over,  in  the  year ;  and  because  she  could 
not  get  as  much  as  she  wanted  from  her  husband, 
she  complained  and  fretted  almost  constantly. 

Granger  remained  with  Day  only  a  few  months, 
when  his  domestic  irritations  became  so  great  that, 
in  a  fit  of  passion  and  despair,  he  left  the  city;  and, 
though  some  years  have  passed,  he  has  never  since 
been  heard  of  by  his  family. 

So  much  for  a  prize  in  the  lottery !  We  agree, 
perfectly,  with  Ellis  Day,  that  no  good  ever  comes 
from  money  obtained  by  this  or  any  other  species 
of  gambling,  and  for  the  reason  already  alleged, 
that  it  does  not  correspond  to  any  use  in  the  com- 
munity, but  has  actually  been  obtained  from  those 
who  have  received  no  equivalents  therefor.  Other 
reasons  could  also  be  given,  but  they  must  readily 
suggest  themselves  t>  the  mind  of  almost  every 
reader. 


THE  MOTHER  AND  SON 


IN  a  richly-furnished  chamber,  a  yonag  wxnnan, 
with  a  pale,  serious  face,  reclined  u^on  a  bed ;  even 
without  the  fulness  and  flush  of  health,  beauty  was 
stamped  upon  every  feature.  Her  forehead  was 
broad  and  white,  her  eyes  dark  and  brilliant,  her 
lips  most  delicately  formed ;  yet  over  the  whole  a 
proud  spirit  had  written  characters  that  all  could 
read,  even  though  it  was  plain  to  be  seen  that  she 
had  suffered,  from  some  <?ause,  deep  humiliation. 

It  was  night,  and  she  was  alone ;  but  her  eyes 
were  frequently  turned  toward  the  door  with  a  look 
of  interest,  and  she  seemed  all  the  time  listening, 
as  if  for  the  approach  of  some  one  who  was  expect- 
ed. At  last  a  woman,  past  the  middle  age,  entered; 
as  she  did  so,  the  invalid  rose  up  with  a  look  of 
inquiry. 

"  Has  it  been  done?"  she  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Every  thing  is  ready.    Will  you  not  see  him  ?" 

"  No,  no/'  replied  the  young  woman)  raising  both 
her  hands,  as  if  to  hide  some  disagreeable  object 
from  her  sight,  and  turning  her  head  aside. 

"  He  is  sleeping  so  sweetly,  and  looks  as  innocent 

12*  1ST 


138  THE   MOTHER  AND   SON. 


as  an  angel/'  said  the  woman ;  ee  you  may  never  see 
his  face  again/' 

"  Pray  Heaven  I  never  may !  No — no — no — I 
cannot — I  will  not  see  him.  Let  all  be  done  as  I 
have  directed/'  and  the  speaker  sank  back  upon  the 
bed,  and  buried  her  face  in  the  pillow. 

The  woman  withdrew,  and  she  was  again  left 
alone.  For  an  hour,  the  invalid  lay  almost  as  mo- 
tionless as  if  life  were  extinct.  The  woman  with 
whom  she  had  held  the  brief  conference  we  have 
just  recorded,  came  back  again  after  the  lapse  of  ten 
minutes,  but  her  entrance  was  not  apparently  no- 
ticed. Years  of  misery  were  crowded  into  that  one 
hour  thus  spent  in  self-communion;  and  years 
elapsed  before  its  deeply-cut  record  was  effaced. 
Effaced  ?  It  was  only  covered  over  for  a  time  by 
other  mementos,  but  never  effaced. 

It  was  a  dark,  cold  night  in  December;  since  the 
day  closed  in,  snow  had  begun  to  frill,  and  was  now 
filling  the  air,  and  whirling  about  in  the  mourning 
gusts  that  swept  along  the  streets  and  eddied  among 
the  houses,  scattering  its  white  favours  broadly  over 
the  earth,  creeping  quietly  into  nooks  and  corners, 
now  lightly  falling  upon  the  window-panes,  and  now 
rushing  fiercely  against  them  with  a  heavy  rustling 
sound  that  fell  off  quickly  into  a  low,  retreating  sigh. 
It  was  a  night  to  make  those  who  gathered  around 
the  warm  fireside  fef  I  thankful  for  the  good  gifts 
they  enjoyed. 


THE   MOTHER  AND   SON.  139 


In  a  narrow  court,  far  away  from  any  of  the  neigh- 
bourhoods where  wealth  built  up  her  splendid  man- 
sions, stood  a  low  frame  dwelling,  in  which  lived  a 
poor  widow,  named  Oliver.  She  had  three  young 
children,  and  her  only  means  of  subsistence  were  in 
her  ability  to  work  with  her  hands. 

The  widow  Oliver  had  finished  her  day's  work, 
or  rather  all  the  work  she  happened  to  have  in  the 
house ;  and  after  putting  her  little  ones  to  bed,  sat 
down  by  the  light  of  a  single  tallow-candle  to  sew 
for  herself.  This,  in  her  estimation,  was  more  like 
recreation  than  work.  Her  work  was  -what  she  daily 
performed  as  a  means  of  obtaining  money  with  which 
to  buy  food  and  clothing  for  herself  and  her  little 
ones.  All  the  time  she  could  gain  from  this  neces- 
sary toil  to  make  and  mend  her  own  and  her  chil- 
dren's clothes,  seemed  to  be  like  a  holiday,  and  was 
enjoyed  quite  as  well  and  even  better  than  some 
persons  enjoy  their  hours  of  idleness. 

The  widow  Oliver,  though  poor  and  with  small 
means,  had  a  woman's  heart.  She  loved  her  chil- 
dren, and  worked  for  them  with  as  much  earnestness 
and  far  more  real  pleasure  than  a  merchant  workg 
for  the  wealth  he  seeks  to  accumulate.  While  her 
affection  prompted  her  to  do  all  in  her  power  to 
supply  their  wants,  it  also  prompted  her  to  teach 
them  to  be  contented  with  what  they  had,  and  to 
love  one  another. 

She  had  finished  her  day's  work,  as  we  have  said, 


140  THE   MCTHER   AND   SON. 


and  had  drawn  her  chair  close  to  the  small  light 
emitted  by  a  poor  candle,  in  order  to  sew  for  herself, 
as  she  called  it.  This  sewing  for  herself  was  making 
some  coarse  aprons  for  her  children,  to  cover  and 
protect  their  clothes.  She  had  not  noticed  until 
now  that  it  was  storming.  The  day  had  been  cloudy, 
but  snow  had  not  begun  to  descend  until  after  night- 
fall. A  rustling  against  the  windows  first  gave  her 
notice  of  the  change  without.  A  slight  shiver  passed 
through  her  frame,  more  from  the  idea  of  coldness 
than  from  any  real  change  in  her  bodily  sensation, 
and  she  moved  her  little  work-table  closer  to  the 
fire  of  wood  that  was  burning  cheerfully  upon  the 
hearth. 

Thus  alone,  the  widow  sat  and  plied  her  busy 
needle,  no  sound  falling  upon  her  ears  except  the 
murmur  of  the  blazing  fire,  the  clicking  of  her  thim- 
ble, and  the  occasional  rushing  of  the  storm  against 
the  windows,  or  its  deep  hollow  moaning  as  it  swept 
around  her  humble  dwelling.  She  had  been  sewing 
for  nearly  an  hour,  when  she  stopped  suddenly  and 
listened ;  she  laid  down  her  work,  and,  taking  the 
candle  in  her  hand,  went  up-stairs  into  the  room 
over  the  one  where  she  had  been  sitting,  and  where 
her  children  lay  asleep.  Two  were  in  a  bed  upon 
the  floor,  and  the  third,  who  was  little  more  than  a 
babe,  lay  in  the  middle  of  her  own  bed.  She  held 
the  light  close  to  the  face  of  this  one,  and  saw  that 
he  was  not  only  sound  asleep,  but  had  not  moved 


THE   MOTHER  AND   SON.  141 


since  she  laid  him  there.  She  then  looked  at  the 
other  children  for  a  moment  or  two ;  after  this,  she 
went  down-stairs  and  resumed  her  work.  She  had 
not  taken  many  stitches  before  she  paused  again, 
and  this  time  with  something  like  a  start;  the  low 
cry  of  a  child  had  fallen  upon  her  ear  with  a  distinct- 
ness not  to  be  mistaken.  Again  she  ascended  to  the 
chamber,  but  all  remained  as  she  had  left  it  but  a 
minute  before;  the  children  were  fast  asleep,  and 
evinced  no  sign  of  restlessness.  Mrs.  Oliver  stood 
and  listened  in  the  chamber  for  some  time,  but  all 
remained  quiet.  She  then  went  below  and  sat  down 
beside  her  work-table  to  resume  her  sewing;  but  ere 
she  had  taken  her  work  in  hand,  the  cry  of  a  child 
was  again  heard ;  but  from  whence  the  sound  came 
she  could  not  tell.  It  seemed  near  to  her,  and  yet 
not  in  the  room,  nor  in  the  chamber  above;  nor 
was  the  voice  like  that  of  one  of  her  own  children. 
Breathlessly  she  listened,  with  lips  apart  and  every 
sense  alive;  in  a  few  moments  the  cry  was  repeated, 
louder  and  more  prolonged.  She  arose  to  her  feet, 
listened  again,  and  then  sprang  to  the  door,  unfast- 
ened and  opened  it.  As  she  did  so,  the  cold  air, 
thick  with  large  flakes  of  snow,  rushed  in  upon  her, 
and  for  a  moment  took  away  her  breath  and  blinded 
her  eyes.  As  soon  as  she  was  able  to  see,  she  per- 
ceived that  a  basket  had  been  placed  by  some  one 
upon  her  door-step;  at  the  same  instant,  the  cry  thai 
had  before  fallen  upon  her  ear  rose  from  the  basket, 


142  THE    MOTHER   AND    SON. 


and  explained  the  mystery.  The  truth  flashed  over 
her  rnind — some  heartless  mother  had  abandoned 
her  new-born  babe ! 

u  Bless  me!"  exclaimed  the  widow, -seizing  the 
basket  eagerly  and  lifting  it  within  the  room,  at  the 
same  time  that  she  closed  the  door  and  locked  it. 
Enveloped  in  many  folds  of  a  fine  soft  blanket,  and 
entirely  protected  from  the  cold  and  snow,  she  found 
a  male  infant,  apparently  not  more  than  a  week  old. 
Several  changes  of  clothes  were  in  the  basket,  and 
a  paper  containing  a  small  sum  of  money;  but  there 
was  no  message  from  the  cruel  mother  to  her  to 
whom  she  had  consigned  her  babe;  not  even  the 
simple  request  that  the  helpless  one  should  at  least 
receive  kindness  for  its  own  sake.  Fully  and  entirely 
had  it  been  abandoned,  seemingly  without  a  thought 
for  its  welfare. 

In  the  morning,  it  soon  became  known  that  an 
infant  had  been  left,  on  the  previous  night,  at  the 
door  of  the  widow  Oliver,  and  the  neighbours  came 
in,  one  after  another,  to  see  the  babe  and  to  talk  over 
the  strange  incident. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it  ?"  was  thu 
universal  question;  and 

"  Keep  it/'  was  the  unvarying  reply. 

"  Indeed,  then,  and  I  would  do  no  such  thing," 
said  one ;  "  you  have  enough  to  do  to  take  care  of 
what  you  have/' 

"I  wouldn't  take1  the  bread  out  of  my  children's 


THE   MOTHER   AND   SON,  143 


mouths  to  put  it  into  the  mouth  of  a  stranger's/' 
said  another. 

"  Send  it  to  the  almshouse,"  advised  a  third. 

But  Mrs.  Oliver  had  but  one  reply  for  all  these 
suggestions.  It  was  the  reply  of  a  true  woman. 

"  God  has  sent  this  infant  to  my  door.  Shall  I 
refuse  to  take  it  and  nurse  it  for  Him?  No,  hence- 
forth it  shall  be  as  one  of  my  own  children — I  will 
know  no  difference. " 

As  she  said,  so  she  acted.  From  that  hour,  the 
little  Henry,  as  she  called  him,  was  to  be  as  her 
own  child,  and  it  was  not  long  before  her  love  for 
him  was  as  tender  and  deep  as  for  her  own  children. 
With  the  care  of  an  infant  on  her  hands,  Mrs.  Oli- 
ver could  not  earn  as  much  by  sewing  as  formerly, 
but  the  deficiency  arising  from  this  cause  was  made 
up  to  her  in  another  way.  With  the  money  she 
received  with  the  babe,  she  bought  a  cow,  which 
gave  her  enough  milk  for  the  children,  besides  seve- 
ral quarts  to  sell  every  day.  She  had  lived  in  the 
country  and  understood  all  about  the  management 
of  cows,  and  had  long  desired  to  have  one.  Milking 
and  attending  to  the  cow  afforded  her  healthy  exer- 
cise after  sitting  for  hours  at  her  work,  and  was  no 
loss  of  time;  for  the  money  she  received  for  the 
milk  she  sold  was  very  nearly  double  what  she  could 
have  earned  with  her  needle  in  the  time  it  took  her 
to  milk,  feed,  and  see  after  the  animal  she  had 
bought.  Thus  Heaven,  that  had  sent  her  the  babe, 


144  THE   MOTHER   AND   SON. 


provided  the  means  in  her  hands  for  its  sustenance, 
without  increasing  perceptibly  her  burdens. 

From  the  hour  when  she  received  her  little  Henry, 
no  word  or  token  had  ever  come  from  those  who  had 
ieft  him  to  perish,  it  might  have  been,  in  the  cold 
at  her  door.  As  to  who  his  mother  was,  or  to  what 
family  he  stood  related,  she  remained  in  entire  igno- 
rance. 

Year  after  year  passed  away,  and  the  babe  grew 
from  infancy  to  childhood  and  youth.  He  proved 
to  be  a  brighter  boy  than  any  of  Mrs.  Oliver's  own 
children,  and  had  a  prouder  spirit ;  but  he  had  ge- 
nerous qualities  of  mind,  with  independence,  a  love 
of  truth,  and  firmness  and  decision  of  character.  His 
most  serious  defect  was  a  high  temper ;  but  all  his 
good  qualities  were  encouraged,  and  all  that  showed 
itself  as  evil,  gently,  yet  firmly  restrained  and  kept 
as  quiescent  as  possible. 

As  soon  as  Henry  was  old  enough  to  learn,  Mrs. 
Oliver  taught  him  to  read,  as  she  had  done  her  own 
children,  and  then  sent  him  to  one  of  the  common 
schools.  Here  he  made,  in  the  course  of  a  few  years, 
rapid  advancement.  At  the  age  of  fourteen,  a  gen- 
tleman of  eminence  in  the  profession  of  law,  named 
Hallam,  under  whose  notice  the  lad  had  several 
times  fallen,  and  who  saw  that  he  possessed  more 
than  ordinary  abilities,  offered  to  pay  for  his  instruc- 
tion in  the  higher  branches  of  education  in  one  of 
the  literary  institutions  in  the  city,  for  three  years, 


THE    MOTHER   AND    SON.  145 


if  Mrs.  Oliver  thought  she  could  bear  the  expense 
of  his  maintenance,  as  well  as  furnish  him  with  suit- 
able clothing.  Her  oldest  child,  a  boy,  had  been 
apprenticed  two  years  previously,  and  she  had  begun 
to  talk  about  putting  Henry  out  to  learn  a  trade 
also. 

"  For  the  sake  of  such  advantages,"  she  replied, 
'  I  will  do  any  thing  in  my  power/' 

As  proposed,  Henry  was  entered  at  one  of  the 
oest  institutions,  and  completed  a  course  of  studies, 
.n  three  years,  of  greater  extent  than  is  usually 
tccomplished  in  four  years  by  students  of  good 
;upacity.  So  much  was  the  individual  who  had 
generously  offered  him  these  invaluable  facilities 
gratified  with  the  result,  that  he  took  him  into  his 
office,  and  from  that  time  bore  all  his  expenses  until 
he  was  of  age  and  ready  to  be  admitted  at  the  bar. 

During  the  four  years  that  Henry  remained  in  the 
office  of  his  generous  and  disinterested  benefactor, 
he  devoted  himself  not  only  to  the  study  of  the  pro- 
fession for  which  he  was  destined,  but  to  general 
literature  and  science;  furnishing  his  mind  at  every 
point,  and  laying  the  foundation  upon  which  he  was 
to  build,  in  the  future,  a  safe  structure  of  eminence 
and  usefulness.  As  he  approached  the  age  of  man- 
hood, Mr.  Hallam,  who  had  become  strongly  attached 
to  his  protegij  took  him  into  society  and  introduced 
him  to  the  acquaintance  of  men  of  standing,  intel- 
ligence, and  superior  attainments.  At  first,  his 

IX.— 13 


146  THE    MOTHER   AND    SON. 


modest  worth  was  not  seen;  but  soon,  like  stars 
from  an  evening  sky,  first  one  ray  of  light  and 
then  another  shone  forth,  until  the  brilliancy  of  hia 
acquirements  and  the  profoundness  of  his  intellect 
were  acknowledged  and  appreciated. 

But  no  change  in  his  external  condition,  or  of  the 
point  from  which  he  looked  upon  the  world,  affected, 
in  the  smallest  degree,  the  love  and  gratitude  he 
bore  to  her  whom  he  called  by  the  holy  name  of 
"  mother/'  Mr.  Hallam,  who  was  wealthy,  supplied 
him  with  a  certain  amount  of  money  to  meet  his 
expenses.  It  was  necessary  that  he  should  dress 
as  those  did  into  whose  society  his  benefactor  had 
introduced  him ;  but  in  doing  this  he  exercised  the 
closest  economy,  and  made  it  a  point  to  preserve  his 
clothes  with  the  utmost  care.  Beyond  this,  he  never 
spent  a  dollar;  all  that  remained  was  given  to  Mrs. 
Oliver,  with  whom  he  continued  to  reside  :  this  was 
never  less  than  six  or  seven  dollars  every  week, 
which,  with  what  she  still  continued  to  earn,  enabled 
the  widow  to  live  much  more  comfortably  than  had 
formerly  been  the  case. 

At  length,  Henry  Oliver  became  of  age,  and  was 
admitted  to  the  bar. 

"  What  are  your  views  and  intentions  now,  Hen- 
ry?" asked  Mr.  Hallam,  as  they  walked  together 
from  the  court-room 

"  I  expect  to  follow  the  profession  for  which  J 
have  been  educated/'  replied  the  young  man. 


THE   MOTHER   AND    SON,  147 


"In  this  city ?" 

"  Oh,  yes.    I  have  no  wish  to  remove  from  here." 

"  Practice  comes  slowly  to  a  young  man/'  re- 
marked Mr.  Hallam.  They  were  just  then  at  the 
door  of  his  office,  and  entered  before  Henry  made 
any  reply. 

As  they  sat  down,  Mr.  Hallam  repeated — "  As  1 
said,  Henry,  practice  comes  slowly  to  a  young  man, 
more  particularly  in  the  law/' 

"  I  am  aware  of  that/'  was  replied,  with  some 
seriousness  of  voice  and  expression  of  countenance 
"  But  I  must  wait  my  time.  I  suppose  I  shall  get 
something  to  do;  at  least  enough  to  meet  my  ex- 
penses." 

"  Yes,  if  you  hunt  up  magistrates'  cases,  do  your 
share  of  pettifogging,  and  take  good  care  to  make 
the  most  out  of  a  cause  when  you  do  get  one." 

"  None  of  which  I  can  or  will  do/'  replied  the 
young  man,  promptly. 

"  Then  I  am  not  so  sure  that  you  will  at  once  be 
able  to  meet  your  expenses,  unless  they  be  very 
light,"  said  Mr.  Hallam. 

"  I  will  see  that  they  are  not  heavy,"  was  the 
quiet  reply,  "  while  I  await  patiently  the  sure  reward 
of  '  time — faith — energy.'  " 

"And  that  reward  will  come,  Henry,  sooner  or 
iater." 

"  I  know  it.     I  will  wait." 

Mr.  Hallam  cast  his  eyes  to  the  floor  thought- 


148  THE    MOTHER   AND    SON. 


fully,  and  sat  for  some  minutes ;  then  looking  up, 
he  said — -u  Henry,  would  you  be  willing  to  take  a 
share  in  my  business  ?  Or  do  you  prefer  to  start 
alone  and  build  up  a  reputation  for  yourself?" 

"  To  be  associated  with  you  in  business,"  the 
young  man  said,  with  evident  emotion,  "  would  be 
the  greatest  benefit  I  could  now  receive,  and  would 
overstep  all  my  present  ambition.  But  I  never 
hoped  for  any  thing  like  this." 

"  If  you  are  disposed  to  share  the  labour  of  my 
heavy  practice/'  returned  Mr.  Hallam,  "  I  will  at 
once  take  you  into  the  business.  I  must  have  an 
associate,  and  you  will  suit  me  best.  Turn  it  over 
in  your  mind,  and  if  you  think  such  an  arrangement 
desirable  and  advantageous,  it  can  be  at  once  entered 
into.  I  will,  in  the  beginning,  give  you  the  pro- 
ceeds of  one-fifth  of  my  practice,  which  will  yield 
you  very  near  two  thousand  dollars  per  annum  • 
this  to  continue  for  three  years.  After  that,  the 
partnership  can  be  dissolved  or  formed  upon  a  new 
basis,  as  may  be  agreeable  to  both." 

It  was  some  time  before  Henry  could  compose  his 
mind  sufficiently  to  reply.  The  generous  offer,  so 
unexpected,  completely  overpowered  him. 

"  I  accept  the  offer  with  gladness,"  he  said;  "and 
more  for  the  sake  of  another,  than  for  the  high  ad- 
vantages that  it  presents  to  me.  Deserted  by  her 
who  gave  me  birth,  and  left,  as  I  have  been  told,  in 
the  street  on  a  stormy  night,  she  whom  I  now  call 


THE    MOTHER   AND    SON.  149 


my  mother  took  me  in  and  loved  me,  and  cared  for 
me  as  for  her  own  children,  sharing  with  me  the  food 
she  earned  for  them,  and  working  harder  that  they 
might  feel  no  privations.  What  do  I  not  owe  to  her? 
I  would  repay  the  debt  with  my  life,  if  I  could.  My 
mother — for  such  I  acknowledge  her  in  my  heart  to 
be,  as  well  as  call  her  so  with  my  lips — still  has  to 
work  with  her  hands,  old  as  she  is,  although  every 
dollar  with  which  your  generous  bounty  has  supplied 
me,  beyond  what  was  necessary  to  furnish  me  with 
suitable  clothing,  has  gone  into  her  hands.  Now, 
thanks  to  your  noble  offer,  I  can  place  her  above 
labour  and  above  want,  and  in  a  position  such  as 
she  deserves.  For  her  sake,  my  dear  sir,  do  I  thank 
you." 

Henry  grasped  the  hand  of  Mr.  Hallam,  as  he 
ceased  speaking,  while  tears,  that  he  could  not  re- 
press, gushed  from  his  eyes. 

"  Thrice  worthy  of  all  my  best  affections,  which 
you  have  long  had,  do  I  feel  you  now  to  be,  my  dear 
boy,"  said  Mr.  Hallam,  returning  with  ardour  the 
pressure  of  Henry's  hand;  "your  noble  wishes  shall 
at  once  be  gratified." 

Turning  to  his  desk,  Mr.  Hallam,  in  the  generous 
enthusiasm  of  the  moment,  drew  a  check  for  a  thou- 
sand dollars,  and  handing  it  to  the  young  man,  said, 
us  he  did  so — "  Take  that :  it  is  the  first  fruits  of 
your  new  business;  place  your  mother  in  just  the 
position  your  heart  desires  her  to  be  in." 

13* 


150  THE    MOTHER   AND    SON. 


Henry  wrung  the  hand  of  Mr.  Hallam,  and  then 
passed  quickly  from  the  office;  he  could  not  trust 
himself  to  utter  the  deep  gratitude  he  felt. 

A  neat,  but  not  large  house  was  immediately 
rented,  and  furnished  with  a  degree  of  taste,  com- 
fort and  elegance  far  beyond  what  the  limited  means 
of  Mrs.  Oliver  had  ever  enabled  her  to  enjoy.  Into 
this  house  Henry  took  his  mother  after  all  was 
ready,  and  gave  her  the  first  happy  intelligence  of 
the  change  that  had  taken  place,  by  saying — "This, 
dear  mother,  is  all  your  own.  No  more  care  and 
labour,  but  rest,  and  peace,  and  comfort  for  your 
declining  years.  It  is  some  small  return  for  all  I 
owe  you ;  but  small  as  it  is,  I  bring  it  to  you  with 
n  glad  heart/' 

Sacred  to  filial  and  maternal  love  were  the  tears 
that  mingled  freely  when  all  was  explained  and  un- 
derstood. It  was  some  time,  however,  before  Mrs. 
Oliver  could  really  believe  that  what  she  saw  and 
heard  was  not  in  a  dream. 

Associated  wifh  Mr.  Hallam,  Henry  soon  had  an 
opportunity  of  distinguishing  himself  in  a  case  of 
great  importance,  by  an  argument  before  the  court 
that  at  once  gave  him  a  reputation  for  acuteness 
of  mind,  strong  good  sense  and  powerful  eloquence. 
NTot  many  years  elapsed  before  he  was  considered 
one  of  the  ablest  lawyers  at  the  bar;  his  income, 
from  two  thousand  dollars  a  year,  soon  increased  to 
double  that  amount.  He  did  not  forget,  in  his  pros- 


THE    MOTHER   AND    SON.  151 


perity,  the  children  of  Mrs.  Oliver,  with  whom  he- 
had  grown  up;  but  feeling  toward  them  as  a  brother 
lie  acted  as  he  felt,  and  aided  them  materially  it 
their  efforts  to  improve  their  condition. 

Five  years  from  the  time  when  Henry  Oliver 
commenced  the  practice  of  law,  in  association  with 
Mr.  Hallam,  he  was  run  by  one  of  the  political  par- 
ties for  Congress,  and  elected  by  a  large  majority. 
In  the  hall  of  representatives  he  distinguished  him- 
self in  many  important  debates,  and  his  name  be- 
came known  throughout  the  country.  For  many 
years  he  continued  to  be  elected  to  Congress,  and 
to  be  held  in  high  estimation  as  a  man  of  great 
intellectual  power  and  unflinching  integrity.  No 
man  had  a  fairer  reputation,  no  man  was  held  in 
greater  esteem  by  his  personal  friends,  or  by  the 
people,  who  only  knew  his  worth  by  the  quality  of 
his  acts. 

Thus  had  he  earned  for  himself  a  distinguished 
name;  all  men  were  proud  to  take  him  by  the  hand, 
and  all  circles  felt  honoured  by  his  presence,  even 
though  the  facts  of  his  early  life  and  doubtful  pa- 
rentage were  well  known. 

Mr.  Hallam,  with  whom  Henry  was  still  asso- 
ciated in  business,  was  sitting  in  his  office  one  day, 
about  ten  years  from  the  time  when  young  Oliver 
had  stepped  upon  the  world's  broad  stage  as  a  man 
when  the  widow  of  a  very  eminent  professional  man 
who  had  died  some  years  before  came  in  and  begged 


152  THE    MOTHER   AND    SON. 


to  have  a  few  words  of  conversation  with  him,  pro- 
vided the  interview  would  be  considered  strictly 
confidential.  Mr.  Hallam  had  known  the  lady  for 
years.  She  was  connected  with  some  of  the  best 
families  in  the  State,  and  had,  in  her  younger  days, 
been  a  brilliant  woman  of  fashion.  He  assured  her 
that  any  thing  she  might  wish  to  say  to  him  would 
be  held  perfectly  sacred.  She  seemed  a  good  deal 
disturbed,  and  sat  for  some  time  evidently  at  a  loss 
how  to  begin  the  communication  she  wished  to  make. 
At  length,  she  said — "You  are,  of  course,  inti- 
mately acquainted  with  Mr.  Oliver." 

"I  am,"  replied  Mr.  Hallam;  "I  raised  him,  I 
might  almost  say,  from  a  boy ;  I  know  him  tho- 
roughly." 

"  He  has  made  himself  a  brilliant  reputation," 
remarked  the  lady. 

"He  has  fairly  and  honestly  made  it.  But  the 
public  know  not  half  his  worth." 

"  Do  you  know  his  family  ?"  asked  the  lady. 

"  No,  nor  does  he  know  them  himself.  He  was 
abandoned  by  his  mother  when  an  infant." 

"  So  I  have  heard.  But  has  he  no  suspicion  who 
are  his  relations  ?" 

"  None  in  the  least." 

"  Let  them  occupy  what  social  position  they  may, 
he  will  do  them  no  discredit,"  said  the  lady. 

"Discredit!"  ejaculated  Mr.  Hallam.  "No, 
ma'am !  But  he  would  do  them  honour.  I  care 


THE    MOTHER   AND    SON.  153 


not  who  his  relatives  are,  or  how  high  they  stand 
Henry  Oliver  is  worthy  to  take  his  place  beside 
them." 

"  They  might  claim  him  now,  without  a  blush  of 
shame/'  continued  the  lady,  looking  intently  in  the 
face  of  Mr.  Hallam. 

"  So  far  as  Henry  is  concerned,  they  might/'  he 
returned,  feeling  considerably  annoyed  by  the  lady's 
manner  and  words,  and  not  really  understanding 
the  drift  of  her  strange  questions. 

"  Mr.  Hallam,"  resumed  the  visitor,  after  a  pause, 
her  voice  slightly  trembling,  "I  will  now  communi- 
cate a  secret  that  has  been  locked  in  my  bosom  for 
thirty  years.  Henry  Oliver  is  my  son  !" 

"  Your  son  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Hallam,  starting  to 
his  feet.  "  Impossible  ?" 

"  It  is  as  I  say,  Mr.  Hallam.  For  years  my  eyes 
*  have  been  upon  him,  and  I  have  marked  with  a 
mother's  pride — mingled,  it  is  true,  with  other  mo- 
tions of  a  far  less  pleasing  character — his  steady 
advancement  to  positions  of  honour.  The  time  has  at 
last  come,  it  seems  to  me,  when  I  may  claim  him 
without  disgrace.  It  is  no  dishonour  to  be  the  mo- 
ther of  such  a  son,  even  if  he  were  not  born  in  wed- 
lock V 

Mr.  Hallam  was  confounded.  He  made  no  reply, 
for  no  words  that  he  dared  utter  could  at  all  express 
his  feelings.  While  he  stood  silently  looking  into 
the  face  of  his  visitor,  she  said — 


]54  THE    MOTHER   AND    SON. 


"  Now  that  you  know  my  secret,  which,  for  the 
present  at  least,  must  remain  such,  I  wish  you 
to  obtain  for  me  an  interview  with  my  son." 

Mr.  Hallam  bowed. 

"  Can  I  have  it  to-day  ?" 

"  I  presume  so." 

te  May  I  ask  you  to  bring  Henry  to  my  house  this 
afternoon  ?" 

"  I  will  tell  him  that  you  desire  to  see  him,  at  any 
hour  you  may  name,"  replied  Mr.  Hallam. 

"  Say  five  o'clock." 

Mr.  Hallam  again  bowed. 

His  visitor  lingered  for  a  while,  making  many  re- 
marks on  the  subject,  all  going  to  show  that  the  pride 
she  felt  in  her  son's  reputation  was  the  only  incen- 
tive she  had  in  claiming  him;  and  that  this  feel- 
ing entirely  obliterated  all  shame  and  all  compunc- 
tion at  having  abandoned  him  while  an  infant. 

At  five  o'clock,  Henry  Oliver  called  at  the  house 
of  the  lady  who  had  desired  an  interview,  in  order, 
as  he  supposed,  to  consult  him  on  some  professional 
business.  He  found  her  sitting  in  one  of  her  par- 
lours. She  received  him  in  a  formal  and  somewhat 
embarrassed  manner.  After  both  had  sat  silent  for 
some  short  space  of  time,  the  lady  said,  without 
any  preliminary  remark,  and  in  a  low,  rather  agi- 
tated voice, 

"  Henry,  I  am  your  mother  !" 

The  young  man  sprang  to  his  feet  as  suddenly  as 


THE   MOTHER   AND    SON 


if  a  pistol  had  been  fired  close  to  his  ear;  gave 
the  woman  a  look  of  profound  astonishment,  anrt 
then  replied  in  a  firm  tone — 

"No,  madam  !   you  are  not  my  mother." 

"  But  I  tell  you  I  am  !"  returned  the  woman, 
rising  also  to  her  feet.  "  You  are  my  son,  and  my 
only  son  I" 

"  I  deny  the  relationship  !"  exclaimed  the  young 
man  indignantly.  "  I  was  abandoned  in  infancy,  I 
know,  by  some  unfeeling  monster;  but  God  gavo 
me  a  mother  to  love  me,  and  she  is  ray  mother  still 
— my  true  and  only  mother/' 

As  if  stricken  down  by  a  heavy  blow,  the  woman 
sank  upon  the  sofa  from  which  she  had  arisen,  and 
Henry  Oliver  turned  away  and  rushed  from  the 
house. 

Nothing  of  all  this  was  breathed  by  the  young 
man  to  any  living  soul.  He  locked  it  up  in  his 
bosom,  even  from  Mr.  Hallam.  But  that  gentle- 
man saw  enough  of  the  effect  of  the  interview  upon 
both  him  and  the  individual  who  had  claimed  to  be 
his  mother  when  it  was  too  late,  to  satisfy  him  of  its 
true  nature.  He  could  not  but  honour  the  young 
man  for  his  noble  indignation,  at  the  same  time 
that  he  grieved  for  the  pang  such  an  announce- 
ment as  had  been  made  to  him  must  have  caused. 

Shortly  after  this,  Henry  Oliver  was  united  in 
marriage  to  the  daughter  of  a  well  known  senator  of 
the  United  States,  and  thereby  became  connected 


156  THE    MOTHER   AND    SON. 


with  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  distinguished  families 
in  the  country.  This  union,  however,  did  not  take 
place  before  Henry  had  fully  communicated  to  both 
the  lady  and  her  parents  all  the  facts  regarding  his 
early  and  subsequent  history,  with  the  single  excep- 
tion of  the  discovery  he  had  made  of  his  real  parent. 
That  was  a  secret  locked  in  his  bosom }  and  one  of 
which  he  never  permitted  himself  to  think,  when 
he  could  force  the  subject  from  his  mind. 

Toward  Mrs.  Oliver,  his  "  true  and  only  mother/' 
as  he  had  expressed  it;  he  manifested  to  the  last 
the  warmest  affection.  For  her  husband's  sake,  his 
young  wife  paid  Mrs.  Oliver  the  kindest  attentions 
from  the  first.  It  was  not  long,  however,  before 
she  loved  her  for  the  affectionate  gentleness,  purity, 
and  excellence  of  her  character;  and  when,  in  a  good 
old  age,  she  passed  away  from  them,  she  mingled  her 
tears  with  those  of  her  husband  that  watered  the 
grave  where  she  was  laid  at  rest. 

A  few  years  after  this  event,  as  Mr.  Hallam  and 
Henry  Oliver  sat  one  day  conversing  in  their  office, 
a  woman,  having  the  appearance  of  a  domestic,  came 
in  and  asked  for  the  latter.  On  being  told  which 
was  the  person  she  sought,  she  said — 

"  Mrs. is  very  ill — and  not  expected  to  live. 

She  wishes  to  see  you  before  she  dies." 

"  Tell  her  that  I  cannot" —  Henry  was  speak- 
ing from  a  first  impulse,  forgetful  where  he  wart, 
and  of  every  thing  but  the  instinctive  repugnance  he 


THE   MOTHER   AND    SON.  157 


felt  to  an  interview  with  the  person  named.  But  a 
look  and  a  gesture  from  Mr.  Hallam  caused  him  to 
check  his  utterance  of  the  words  that  were  upon  his 
lips. 

"  A  word  with  you,  Henry/'  said  the  latter,  rising, 
and  both  retired  into  an  adjoining  room,  after  the 
messenger  had  been  desired  to  wait  for  a  few 
minutes. 

As  soon  as  they  were  alone,  Mr  Hallam  said — 

"  Henry,  I  know  your  secret — it  is  your  mother 
who"— 

"  No  sir,  she  is  not  my  mother  !"  Oliver  indig- 
nantly replied.  "  My  mother  is  in  heaven  !"  As  he 
said  this,  he  began  to  pace  the  floor  in  an  agitated 
manner. 

"  She  is  the  author  of  your  being,  Henry,  as  you 
are  aware" — 

"  So  she  says }  but  she  abandoned  me,  and  God 
gave  me  a  true  mother.  Her  and  her  only  have  I 
known,  and  I  will  acknowledge  no  other.  Does  this 
woman  deserve  the  sacred  name  of  mother  ?  No — 
my  heart  will  not  acknowledge  the  relationship,  and 
my  lips  shall  never  give  the  lie  to  my  heart.  I  can- 
not see  her,  Mr.  Hallam  !  She  is  nothing  to  me." 

"  Humanity  has  some  claims,  Henry,"  returned 
Mr.  Hallam,  in  a  serious  voice.  "  Since  the  day 
when  Mrs. claimed  you" — 

"  Mr.  Hallam,  what  do  you  know  of  all  this  ?"  said 
Oliver,  much  excited. 

IX.— 14 


158  THE    MOTHER   AND    SON. 


"I  knew  all  at  the  time/'  was  calmly  replied.  "But 
as  I  was  saying,  since  the  day  when  Mrs. claim- 
ed you  as  her  son,  I  have  observed  her  closely. 
From  that  time  she  has  been  changed — greatly 
changed.  The  fire  of  her  eyes  has  grown  dim,  her 
voice  has  lost  its  fine  expression,  her  step,  so  elastio 
even  in  old  age,  has  become  slow  and  deliberate. 
Your  refusal  to  acknowledge  yourself  her  son  seems 
to  have  broken  her  spirits  and  destroyed  the  vital 
principle  of  her  existence.  Neither  you  nor  I  can 
tell  how  much  she  has  suffered,  Henry ;  or  how 
deeply  she  has  repented.  God  forgives,  and  you 
must  do  the  same.  In  life's  bitterest  extremity,  she 
sends  for  you — you,  her  son.  Do  not  refuse  to  see 
her ;  but  go,  in  the  name  of  humanity." 

"Let  me  think  a  moment,"  replied  Oliver,  with 
a  bewildered  look  and  a  husky  voice.  As  he  said 
this,  he  sank  into  a  chair,  and  covered  his  face  with 
his  hands.  For  more  than  a  minute,  he  sat  almost 
motionless,  when  a  gush  of  tears  evinced  the  con- 
quest of  his  better  feelings 

"  Tell  her,"  he  said,  looking  up,  "  that  I  will  be 
there." 

Mr.  Hallam  withdrew  and  informed  the  mes- 
senger that  Mi.  Oliver  would  attend  to  the  request 
she  had  brought. 

Half  an  hour  afterward,  Henry  Oliver  entered  the 

chamber  of  Mrs.  .  His  face  was  pale  and  the 

whole  expression  of  his  countenance  subdued. 


THE   MOTHER   AND    SON.  159 


The  dying  woman  raised  herself  up  as  he  drew 
near  to  her  bedside,  looking  him  eagerly  in  the  face. 
But  she  did  not  speak  until  she  had  motioned  all 
her  attendants  from  the  room.  Then,  with  a  voice 
low,  tremulous,  and  tender  even  to  sadness,  she  mur- 
mured— 

"  My  son — my  son  !"  and  fell  forward.  Oliver 
received  her  in  his  arms,  uttering,  in  as  low  and  sad 
a  tone — 

"  My  mother !" 

The  whole  frame  of  the  dying  woman  quivered, 
she  attempted  to  throw  back  her  head,  evidently 
that  she  might  look  into  his  face,  but,  in  the  effort, 
every  muscle  of  her  body  became  relaxed — in  the 
next  moment,  she  lay  dead  in  the  Arzu?  of  her  son. 


BETTER  TO  ACT  THE  GENTLEMAN. 


SOME  men  are  born  gentlemen,  but  the  number 
is  not  large;  others,  in  the  process  of  moral  eleva- 
tion, become  gentlemen  through  a  denial  and  re- 
moval of  those  selfish  influences  that  lead  to  an 
utter  disregard  of  others;  while  a  larger  number 
merely  play  the  gentleman  on  such  occasions  as 
seem  most  fitting  to  advance  their  interests  or  minis- 
ter to  their  love  of  the  world's  good  opinion,  but  are, 
at  all  other  times,  as  ungentlemanly  in  their  inter- 
course as  it  is  possible  for  them  to  be.  The  very 
fact  of  playing  the  gentleman  under  restraint  gives 
their  boorish  propensities  an  increased  activity  the 
moment  they  are  free  again. 

Mr.  Partridge  belonged  to  and  fairly  represented 
the  last-named  class.  He  was  no  gentleman,  and 
yet,  to  have  hinted  at  the  truth  would  have  been 
to  awaken  his  warmest  indignation ;  for,  strange  as 
it  may  seem,  he  imagined  himself  to  be  every  inch 
a  gentleman.  Mr.  Partridge  was  in  business; 
though  not  as  successful  as  he  might,  naturally  wish 
to  be.  Money  came  in  but  slowly;  while  the  due- 

160 


BETTER  TO  ACT  THE  GENTLEMAN.    161 


days  of  notes  occurred  with  a  most  unpleasant  fre- 
quency. A  note-paying  day  rarely  found  Mr.  Par- 
tridge in  his  best  humour,  for  it  did  not  often  occur 
that  on  such  occasions  his  bank  account  showed  the 
required  balance.  Then  he  had  to  bustle  around,  bor- 
row, force  collections,  or  sacrifice  good  paper — none 
of  which  acts  helped  in  any  way  to  produce  an  equable 
state  of  mind.  The  man  who  came  into  Mr.  Par- 
tridge's store  on  one  of  these  note-paying  days,  had 
to  be  an  excellent  customer,  or  one  whose  good  opi- 
nion he  had  the  best  of  reasons  for  wishing  to  retain, 
to  meet  with  any  attentions  whatever,  or  to  escape 
downright  insult. 

Mr.  Partridge,  in  commencing  business,  had,  like 
most  young  men,  a  fair  proportion  of  up-hill  work 
to  perform ;  for  the  largest  part  of  his  capital  lay  in 
his  ability  and  industry.  The  greatest  drawback 
was  in  his  own  character.  To  a  customer  who  was 
expected  to  buy,  Partridge  was  as  affable  and  as 
polite  as  a  man  could  be ;  and  the  same  was  the  case 
if  the  individual  who  called  in  at  his  store  was  one 
from  whom  a  present  or  remote  advantage  was  ex- 
pected. But,  to  all  others,  it  came  natural  to  bristle 
like  a  porcupine ;  and  the  touch  of  his  quills  was  felt 
and  remembered  much  oftener  than  he  imagined,  or 
than  was  at  all  for  his  interest  to  occur.  Many  a  dol- 
lar failed  to  reach  his  till  on  this  account,  that 
would,  otherwise,  have  reposed  there;  and  many  an 
hour  was  spent  in  money-hunting  on  note-paying 

14* 


162    BETTER  TO  ACT  THE  GENTLEMAN. 

days,  that  might  have  been  spent  at  his  desk  or 
counter,  had  he  been  in  heart  what  he  affected  to  be 
on  certain  occasions — a  gentleman.  But  he  did  not 
know  this;  for  inordinate  self-love,  like  the  poison 
of  a  serpent,  blinds  at  certain  seasons.  One  day — 
it  was  a  "  short  day"  with  the  young  storekeeper — 
a  man  came  in,  and,  after  looking  around  and  making 
casual  examinations  of  goods,  with  the  manner  of  a 
person  who  had  some  other  end  than  that  of  buying 
in  his  mind,  approached  the  desk  at  which  he  was 
standing,  and  made  some  remark,  in  a  familiar  way, 
about  the  weather.  From  the  moment  the  man  came 
in,  the  eyes  of  Partridge  were  upon  him ;  and  he  soon 
understood,  clearly,  that  he  had  no  intention  of  buy- 
ing. The  way  in  which  he  examined  his  goods  an- 
noyed him;  and  by  the  time  the  stranger  reached 
the  part  of  the  store  where  he  stood,  he  was  prepared 
to  meet  him  with  a  rebuff. 

"  What  did  you  say,  sir  ?"  was  the  quick,  rudely- 
uttered  inquiry  of  Partridge. 

The  man  looked  at  him  a  moment  with  evident 
surprise,  and  then  quietly  turned  away,  but  still 
lingered  in  the  store. 

"  Mr.  Partridge  is  not  in,  I  presume/'  said  he  to 
a  clerk,  who  stood  behind  one  of  the  counters,  at 
some  distance  from  where  the  proprietor  still  lin- 
gered moodily  at  his  desk. 

"  Yes,  sir,  he's  in,"  was  the  affable  reply.  "  You 
were  speaking  with  him  a  moment  ago." 


BETTER   TO    ACT   THE   GENTLEMAN  163 


{t  Oh  !"  The  man  turned  and  looked  at  Partridge. 
In  a  little  while  afterward  he  went  away. 

"  What  did  that  fellow  want  ?"  asked  Partridge 
ill-naturedly,  as  soon  as  the  man  had  withdrawn. 

"  He  wished  to  see  you,  I  believe/'  replied  the 
clerk. 

"  I  was  here.  Why  didn't  he  tell  me  his  busi- 
ness ?  I  wonder  what  he  wanted  ?" 

The  incident  rather  worried  the  mind  of  the  young 
storekeeper,  for,  with  a  knowledge  of  the  fact  that 
the  stranger  asked  for  him,  came  the  impression  that, 
in  treating  him  rudely,  he  might  have  foregone  some 
advantage. 

A  few  hours  afterward,  a  man  in  the  same  busi- 
ness with  himself  said,  on  meeting  him — "  Have 
you  seen  Bispham?" 

"  No !"  The  whole  aspect  of  Partridge  changed. 
"Is  he  in  town?" 

"Yes." 

"Are  you  certain?" 

"  I  am.     He  was  to  see  me,  this  morning." 

"  Strange !  He  wrote  me  that  he  would  be  here 
about  this  time." 

"And  hasn't  he  called  on  you  yet?" 

"  No." 

"  I  sold  him  a  pretty  good  bill/' 

"Ah?" 

"  He'll  be  along,  I  suppose,"  said  Partridge,  with 
affected  indifference,  and  then  hurried  away  to  com- 


164    BETTER  TO  ACT  THE  GENTLEMAN. 


plete  his  "financiering"  for  the  day,  and  get  back  to 
his  store  as  quickly  as  possible,  to  await  a  call  from 
Bispham ;  but,  when  evening  came,  the  expected 
customer  had  not  arrived. 

On  the  next  day,  he  heard  of  him  in  various  quar- 
ters ;  and  the  invariable  story  was  that  he  had  been 
buying,  and  cashing  his  bills.  Partridge  couldn't 
understand  it.  During  the  past  year,  he  had  re- 
ceived many  orders  from  Bispham,  who  lived  in 
Pittsburgh,  all  of  which  he  had  promptly  filled,  and, 
as  far  as  he  could  judge  from  letters,  to  the  custom- 
er's satisfaction.  Why  he  had  passed  his  store,  now 
that  he  was  in  the  city,  and  made  bills  at  other  esta- 
blishments, was  more  than  he  could  divine. 

On  the  third  day,  Partridge  saw  the  stranger 
before  referred  to  enter  his  store  again,  and  linger 
around  as  before.  After  a  while,  he  came  up  to  the 
desk  where  the  young  man  stood,  as  on  the  previous 
occasion,  and  said  to  him — "  I  believe  I  have  a  small 
bill  on  your  books,  which  might  as  well  be  settled. 
Bispham  is  the  name/' 

"  Mr.  Bispham  !"  exclaimed  Partridge,  a  sudden 
light  breaking  over  his  countenance.  "  How  do 
vou  do?  I'm  glad  to  see  you.  When  did  you  ar- 
riv^  in  our  city?"  And  as  this  was  said,  he  reached 
out  his  hand  and  shook  that  of  the  customer  warmly. 

"  I've  been  here  for  several  days,"  was  the  reply 
of  Bispham ;  but  there  was  no  correspondent  enthu- 
siasm in  his  manner. 


BETTER   TO   ACT    THE   GENTLEMAN. 


"  Indeed  !     Why  haven't  you  called  before?1' 

"  I  was  in  on  the  first  day  of  my  arrival/ '  replied 
the  merchant;  "but  was  So  disgusted  with  the 
rudeness  of  one  of  your  clerks,  or  some  other  person 
about  your  establishment,  that  I  didn't  care  to  come 
again." 

The  countenance  of  Partridge  fell. 

"I'm  sorry/'  he  murmured  in  a  low  voice,  while 
a  guilty  confusion  was  on  his  face.  "  But  I  am 
sure,  Mr.  Bispham,  that  no  rudeness  was  intend- 
ed." 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  the  customer;  "but  I'm 
rather  sensitive  on  such  matters.  I  always  make  it 
a  point  to  be  civil  to  friends  or  strangers,  and  expect 
as  much  for  myself.  If  I  don't  find  civility  in  any 
one,  I  don't  feel  bound  to  have  any  intercourse  with 
him  either  as  a  business  man  or  a  friend." 

A  silence  highly  embarrassing  to  Partridge  suc- 
ceeded. 

"  If  you  will  draw  off  my  account,  I  will  settle  it," 
said  the  merchant.  "  I  must  leave  for  New  York 
this  afternoon." 

Partridge  turned  to  his  ledger  and  made  out  the 
bill. 

"  It's  a  small  matter,  Mr.  Bispham.  There's  no 
need  of  settling  it  just  now,"  said  Partridge. 

"  I  like  to  pay  off  these  small  matters,"  replied 
Bispham,  as  he  drew  out  his  pocket-book.  "  Put  a 
receipt  on  it,  if  you  please." 


16t>  BETTER   TO   ACT   THE   GENTLEMAN. 


The  bill  was  receipted,  and  the  money  paid. 

"  If  you  should  want  any  thing  more  in  my  line, 
I  hope  you  will  send  on  your  orders/'  said  Par- 
tridge. "  I  shall  always  be  happy  to  furnish  you 
with  goods  in  my  line,  at  the  lowest  market-rates." 

"  Thank  you,"  replied  Bispham;  "  but  I've  mado 
arrangements  with  Murdock  to  do  all  my  business 
here  in  future/' 

Then  bowing  with  distant  politeness,  the  merchant 
retired,  leaving  Partridge  to  his  own  reflections, 
which  were  not  of  the  most  agreeable  character. 

A  lesson  like  this,  it  might  be  supposed,  would 
do  much  for  the  improvement  of  our  hero's  man- 
ners; but  what  is  "  bred  in  the  bone  is  hard  to  come 
out  of  the  flesh."  Unless  a  man,  from  impulse  or 
long-confirmed  habit,  act  the  gentleman  on  all  occa- 
sions, he  will  be  very  apt  to  forget  himself  at  times, 
when  it  would  be  much  to  his  interest  and  reputa- 
tion to  play  his  part  in  the  most  agreeable  man- 
ner. 

When  Bispham  went  back  to  Pittsburgh,  he  de- 
scribed to  a  man  in  the  same  business,  who  was  deal- 
ing pretty  extensively  with  Partridge,  the  manner 
of  his  reception. 

"  I  guess  I'll  give  Ae  gentleman  a  trial  also," 
said  the  man.  "  I'm  going  to  Philadelphia  next 
week." 

He  did  so.  On  arriving  in  the  city,  he  called  at 
the  store  of  Partridge.  Not  being  a  man  of  very 


BETTER   TO    ACT   THE   GENTLEMAN.  167 


remarkable  presence,  he  did  not  receive  any  very 
particular  attention.  This  was  all  natural  enough; 
but  it  did  not  stop  there.  In  approaching  Partridge, 
which  he  did  with  some  casual  question,  he  was 
treated  with  such  marked  indifference,  and  even 
rudeness,  that  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  left  the 
store.  As  in  the  previous  case,  Partridge  remem- 
bered him  when  he  called  to  settle  his  bill;  and, 
when  it  was  too  late  to  retrieve  his  error,  found  that 
he  had,  in  his  boorishness,  insulted  one  of  his  best 
customers. 

After  that,  for  some  weeks,  he  assumed  a  better 
exterior,  and  was  particularly  pleasant  to  every  one 
who  came  into  his  store;  but,  not  turning  up  angels 
in  disguise,  he  became  discouraged,  and  fell  back 
into  his  old  habit,  that,  like  a  long-worn  garment, 
fitted  him  more  easily. 

A  very  natural  thing,  in  the  case  of  Partridge, 
was  his  falling  in  love.  The  object  of  this  attach- 
ment was  a  young  lady  of  good  family,  every  mem- 
ber of  which  was  as  remarkable  for  true  gentlemanly 
and  ladylike  conduct  on  all  occasions,  as  Partridge 
was  remarkable  for  the  opposite  when  there  was 
nothing  to  be  gained  by  assuming  a  virtue  to  which 
he  had  no  real  title.  The  name  of  this  young  lady 
was  Emily  Weston.  Besides  her  social  standing, 
accomplishments,  beauty,  and  sweetness  of  disposi- 
tion, Emily  possessed  another  attraction  to  which 
the  young  man  was  by  no  means  indifferent — and 


168     BETTER  TO  ACT  THE  GENTLEMAN. 


that  was  money.  We  will  not  say  that  this  was  her 
strongest  attraction,  so  far  as  Partridge  was  con- 
cerned ;  but  it  had  its  due  influence  in  determining 
4iis  favourable  impression  of  the  young  lady. 

In  all  his  intercourse  with  Miss  Weston  and  her 
family,  Partridge  was,  of  course,  the  gentleman  so 
far  as  exterior  conduct  was  concerned;  though  it 
must,  at  the  same  time,  be  admitted  that  he  occa- 
sionally overacted  his  part.  This  arose  from  the 
fact  that  his  manners  were  assumed,  instead  of  being 
spontaneous;  and  also  in  consequence  of  a  too  recent 
consultation  of  Count  D'Orsay's  rules  of  etiquette. 
Still  the  impression  he  made  was  favourable,  and 
the  young  lady  received  his  addresses  in  no  unwil- 
ling spirit.  Every  thing  was  going  on  most  hap- 
pily, and  the  lover  beginning  to  con  over  in  his  mind 
the  form  of  application  for  the  hand  and  heart  of 
the  fair  young  lady. 

About  this  time,  business  called  Partridge  away 
as  far  as  Boston.  On  his  return,  he  remained  a 
couple  of  days  in  New  York,  for  the  transaction  of 
some  business,  and  then  left  for  home  in  the  after- 
noon train.  It  was  in  the  winter-time.  As  the  boat 
touched  the  Jersey  side,  Partridge  was  one  of  the 
first  to  spring  ashore,  and  press  forward  with  eager 
haste,  carpet-bag  in  hand,  to  secure  a  good  seat. 
Passing  the  conductor  at  the  door  of  the  car-house, 
he  made  his  way  to  the  ladies'  car,  and  though 
refused  admittance  by  the  man  stationed  there,  he 


BETTER  TO  ACT  THE  GENTLEMAN.     169 


roughly  pressed  him  aside,  and  forced  his  way  in, 
despite  of  opposition.  He  was  the  first  to  enter  this 
car,  and  had  leisure  to  select  just  the  place  that 
suited  him.  Depositing  his  carpet-bag  on  one  end 
of  a  seat,  he  ensconced  himself  in  the  other,  with  a 
resolution  to  occupy  his  comfortable  quarters  in  the 
manner  and  form  just  assumed,  in  despite  of  all 
ordinary  efforts  to  remove  him. 

Quickly  following,  came  a  hurrying  crowd  of  men, 
women,  and  children,  all  eager  to  secure  good  places ; 
and  in  a  very  brief  time,  nearly  every  seat  had  one 
or  more  occupants.  As  in  most  cases,  a  number 
of  men  who  were  not  accompanied  by  ladies  had 
succeeded  in  forcing  their  way  into  this  car,  and 
each  one  of  these,  like  Partridge,  occupied  his  single 
seat,  and  with  the  too  evident  intention  of  occupying 
it  "alone  in  his  glory,"  if  possible.  These  person- 
ages were  all  so  very  intent  on  what  was  going  on 
outside  of  the  car,  as  to  be  oblivious  of  all  proceed- 
ings within.  Such  was  the  case  with  Partridge, 
when,  a  few  moments  before  the  starting  of  the 
train,  a  gentleman  touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 
Instantly  he  turned  his  head,  with  a  look  of  affected 
surprise,  while  a  frown  knit  his  brow.  The  gentle- 
man smiled,  and  said,  politely — u  I'm  sorry  to  trou- 
ble you,  but  I  have  a  lady  with  me.  Would  you 
be  kind  enough  to  sit  with  the  gentleman  in  front, 
and  let  us  have  the  place  you  occupy?" 

"  T  never  change  my  seat/'  was  the  rude  reply, 


170    BETTER  TO  ACT  THE  GENTLEMAN. 


and  Partridge  turned  his  head  coldly,  and  resumed 
his  observation  of  what  was  passing  without. 

The  gentleman  in  front,  hearing  the  request,  and 
noting  the  manner  of  its  reception,  arose  quickly  and 
tendered  his  place,  falling  hack  as  he  did  so,  and 
forcing,  with  no  dainty  manner,  his  body  down  into 
the  seat  occupied  by  Partridge  and  his  carpet-bag. 
The  frown  on  the  young  man's  brow  had  deepened 
to  a  scowl  as  he  turned  to  resent,  with  a  look,  this 
invasion  of  his  assumed  rights,  when,  to  his  utter 
dismay,  the  gentleman  who  had  desired  him  to  give 
place  for  a  lady,  handed  Emily  Weston  into  the  seat 
just  left  vacant.  She  did  not  turn  to  look  at  him, 
and  he  knew  not  whether  he  had  been  recognised, 
or  thought  to  be  a  stranger.  Her  companion  made 
some  remark,  in  which  the  words  "  ungentlemanly" 
and  "  boorish"  reached  his  ear.  If  she  replied,  he 
did  not  hear  what  she  said. 

By  this  time,  the  seats  were  all  filled,  and  a  num- 
ber of  ladies  were  standing  in  the  passage-way.  Just 
then  the  conductor  entered,  and  said  in  a  loud  voice, 
"  Those  gentlemen  who  are  unaccompanied  by  ladies 
will  walk  forward  to  the  next  car,  where  there  is 
plenty  of  room." 

Several  men  arose  and  went  forward,  but  Par- 
tridge sat  still,  fearing  to  rise,  lest,  in  doing  so,  he 
should  attract  the  attention  of  Emily.  Three  or  four 
ladies  remained  standing  near.  The  conductor  came 
along,  and  bending  over  towards  him;  said-  -"  Pass 


BETTER  TO  ACT  THE  GENTLEMAN.    171 

into  the  next  car,  if  you  please.  This  one  is  for 
ladies,  and  there  are  a  number  not  yet  seated." 

At  this  address,  Einily  glanced  around,  and  foi 
the  first  time  became  aware  that  the  individual  who 
had  been  guilty  of  the  ungentlemanly  rudeness  just 
mentioned,  was  her  lover.  Their  eyes  met  for  an 
instant,  but  in  neither  of  them  was  there  any  appear- 
ance of  recognition.  Partridge  arose,  and,  with  an 
abashed  look,  retired  into  the  next  car. 

Several  days  were  suffered  to  elapse  after  his  re- 
turn to  Philadelphia,  before  he  ventured  to  call  upon 
Miss  Weston.  During  this  time,  a  brother  of  the 
young  lady,  who  was  usually  in  the  store  of  Par- 
tridge almost  every  day,  did  not  once  make  his  ap- 
pearance. This  was  ominous  of  no  good.  When 
the  visit  was  at  length  made,  the  reception  was,  as 
the  young  man  had  feared,  cold  and  formal ;  and 
this  not  only  by  Emily  herself,  but  by  every  mem- 
ber of  the  family.  His  real  character  had  been 
seen ;  he  was  recognised  as  not  a  true  gentleman. 
It  was  in  vain  that  repeated  efforts  were  made  to 
conciliate  the  lady  and  her  family;  the  quality  of 
the  young  man's  mind  had  been  detected,  and  they 
had  turned  from  him  with  a  repugnance  that  nothing 
could  remove.  Such  a  man  Emily  could  never  love; 
such  a  man  could  not  make  her  happy;  and  she 
cast  away  the  regard  she  had  felt  for  him,  without  a 
painful  emotion. 

Tinder  so  smarting  an  experience,  Partridge  re- 


172  PRINCIPLE   AND   INTEREST. 


solved  that  he  would  be  more  careful  to  ACT  the 
gentleman  on  all  occasions,  as  the  wisest  and  safest 
course;  but  the  utter  disregard  of  others'  feelings, 
comfort,  or  welfare,  that  is  at  the  basis  of  his  cha- 
racter, is  for  ever  leading  him  into  little  acts  that 
betray  the  quality  of  his  mind,  and  make  him  known 
in  all  circles  as  a  man  who  is,  at  least,  NO  gentle- 
man. 


PRINCIPLE  AND  INTEREST. 


A  YOUNG  man,  who  had  received  a  tolerably  good 
education,  came  to  Philadelphia,  a  few  years  ago,  to 
seek  his  fortune.  His  name  was  Abiram  Granger. 
He  brought  a  letter  from  the  clergyman  of  the  vil- 
lage where  he  had  resided  all  his  life,  to  a  merchant  in 
the  city.  His  first  care  was  to  present  this  intro- 
ductory letter,  when  Mr.  Barker,  the  merchant,  told 
him  that  he  was  just  then  in  want  of  assistance,  and 
would  be  pleased  to  engage  him  at  a  moderate  salary. 

On  the  next  day,  the  young  man  went  to  Mr.  Bar- 
ker's store  and  entered  upon  his  duties.  The  mer- 
chant found  him  clear-headed,  quick,  and  of  good 
address;  and  noticed,  besides,  that  his  sense  of  right 


PRINCIPLE   AND   INTEREST.  173 


was  much  keener  than  in  men  generally.  As,  for 
instance,  in  selling  an  article,  although  he  took 
pains  to  make  the  sale,  he  never  in  the  least  exag- 
gerated its  quality.  But  Mr.  Barker  said  to  him- 
self— 

"  He  will  learn  better  than  that,  ere  long.  He 
will. find  that  the  seller  has  enough  to  do  to  take 
care  of  his  particular  interests,  and  must  leave  the 
buyer  to  look  after  his  own  concerns. " 

One  day,  Granger  had  a  customer  to  whom  he 
was  endeavouring  to  sell  an  article  that  he  could  not 
praise  very  warmly. 

"  Can  you  recommend  this  ?"  asked  the  buyer. 

"  Frankly,  I  cannot/'  replied  Granger. 

"  Then  I  will  not  take  it/'  said  the  customer, 
and  went  out. 

Barker  overheard  this,  and,  as  soon  as  the  man 
left,  came  to  the  side  of  his  clerk  and  said — 

"  Why  didn't  he  take  it,  Abiram  ?" 

"Because  I  could  not  recommend  it  as  a  first- 
rate  article." 

"  Did  he  ask  you  to  do  so  ?" 

"Yes/' 

u  I  could  have  sold  it/'  said  the  merchant. 

"  And  so  could  I,  if  I  had  told  him  a  falsehood/' 

"  But  I  could  have  sold  it  without  telling  a  direct 
falsehood." 

"  How  ?"  and  the  clear,  earnest  eyes  of  Granger 
were  fixed  upon  the  face  of  the  merchant. 

16* 


174  PRINCIPLE   AND   INTEREST. 


"  By  saying,  for  instance,  that  the  article  I  be- 
lieved to  be  very  fair,  as  it  came  from  a  good  manu- 
facturer's, and  had  cost  within  a  fraction  of  what 
was  asked  for  it ;  or,  that  it  was  difficult  to  recom- 
mend any  article  in  unequivocal  terms,  but  that,  for 
all  I  knew  to  the  contrary,  this  would  give  satisfac- 
tion. There  are  a  dozen  ways  in  which  to  evade  a 
direct  question  such  as  was  asked  of  you;  and  this 
secret  you  must  learn,  or  you  will  never  rise  in  the 
world/' 

The  last  remark  of  Mr.  Barker  fixed  itself  upon 
the  mind  of  Granger.  He  had  an  ardent  desire  to 
rise  in  the  world.  Far  was  it  from  his  idea  to 
plod  along  through  life  in  an  obscure  position. 
He  was  ambitious  to  rise  above  the  dead  level  of 
the  great  mass,  who  are  content  with  food  and 
raiment.  He  had  believed  it  possible  to  attain  the 
summit  of  his  wishes  without  in  the  least  com- 
promising the  honest  principles  with  which  he  had 
entered  the  world.  The  first  question  of  this  came 
with  the  strange  remark  of  Mr.  Barker — strange, 
at  least,  to  his  ears.  Never  rise  in  the  world,  if  he  did 
not  learn  the  art  of  duplicity !  Never  rise  in  the 
world,  without  laying  aside  the  integrity  of  character 
which  he  had  been  taught  to  believe  would  elevate 
a  man  to  the  highest  place  for  which  he  might  aspire, 
if  he  had  the  intelligence  to  procure  the  means? 
His  mind  was  startled  and  confused  by  this. 

G range*-  was  a  young  man,  and  Barker  at  least 


PRINCIPLE  AND  INTEREST.        175 


fifty-five.  The  latter  had  treated  him  from  the  first 
with  kindness  and  confidence,  and  he  felt  for  him 
something  like  affection  as  well  as  respect.  His  age 
gave  weight  to  his  words — an  undue  weight.  Gran- 
ger thought  of  them,  and  dreamed  over  them.  He 
observed  the  other  young  men  in  the  store,  and 
found  that  they  made  it  a  point  to  sell  a  customer  as 
much  as  possible ;  and,  without  absolutely  lying  to 
the  extent  of  detection,  to  exaggerate  in  regard  to 
the  quality  of  goods  just  sufficiently  to  secure  a  sale. 

"  And  must  I  do  this  ?"  he  asked  of  himself. 
"  Is  duplicity  and  covert  falsehood  necessary  in  order 
to  enable  a  man  to  rise  in  the  world  ?  Surely  this 
cannot  be !" 

Yet  from  the  time  Mr.  Barker  told  him  that  he 
could  not  rise  in  the  world  unless  he  looked  so 
closely  at  his  own  interests  as  not  to  see  the  interests 
of  others,  Granger's  manner  towards  customers 
changed.  He  no  longer  thought  of  justice  to  them 
as  well  as  justice  to  his  employer.  A  few  months 
later,  and  no  one  in  the  store  could  drive  a  sharper 
bargain  with  a  customer  than  he. 

"  My  old  friend  Lyon  was  right/'  remarked  Bar- 
ker to  himself,  as  he  looked  on  and  noted  the 
shrewdness  with  which  the  young  man  conducted 
his  sales  to  a  large  country  dealer.  "  Granger  will 
doubtless  rise  in  the  world.  My  word  for  it,  he  will 
take  care  of  himself,  if  ever  he  gets  a  fair  change." 

A  couple  of  years  in  the  store  of  Mr.  Barker  made 


176  PRINCIPLE   AND   INTEREST. 


Granger  a  shrewd  and  accomplished  business-man. 
There  was  no  better  salesman  in  the  city 

"Granger,"  said  a  partner  in  an  old  established 
house  with  which  Mr.  Barker  dealt  pretty  largely, 
"  what  are  your  future  views  in  regard  to  business." 

"  I  have  never  yet  clearly  defined  them,"  was 
replied. 

"Are  you  inclined  to  enter  into  business?"  was 
next  asked. 

"If  I  can  make  such  arrangements  as  promise 
certain  success.  Not  without." 

"  Barker's  country  custom  is  large  and  good." 

"  Yes,  both  large  and  good.  We  sell  heavily  to 
some  of  the  best  men  in  the  country." 

"  So  I  thought.  To  what  extent  could  you  con- 
trol this  custom  ?" 

"  To  almost  any  extent,  if  I  had  enough  capital 
to  work  with.  To  control  custom,  we  must  have 
just  such  goods  as  customers  want." 

"  Then  you  are  not  averse  to  forming  a  business 
connection,  if  the  required  capital  is  furnished  ?" 

"Not  at  all.  My  wish  is  to  get  into  business 
for  myself,  as  soon  as  I  can  see  the  right  kind  of  an 
opening." 

"  You  know  my  son,  who  has  been  for  some  time 
in  our  counting-room  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  My  wish  is  to  associate  him  in  business  with  a 
man  who  is  well  prepared  to  enter  into  it  with  spirit 


PRINCIPLE  AND  INTEREST.        177 


and  intelligence.  I  think  you  are  such  a  man.  I 
will  furnish  any  amount  of  capital  that  can  be  used 
safely.  Will  you  turn  this  over  in  your  mind,  and 
be  prepared  to  tell  me,  in  the  course  of  a  week;  what 
your  views  are  upon  the  subject  ?" 

"  I  will,"  replied  Granger,  and  the  men  sepa- 
rated. 

"  Control  his  best  custom,"  said  Granger,  musing- 
ly, to  himself,  as  he  sat  alone  in  his  room  that  night, 
pondering  over  the  proposition  that  had  been  made 
to  him.  "  Will  that  be  altogether  right  ?  I  believe 
I  could  take  away  the  very  cream  of  his  business ; 
but  would  it  be  right  to  do  so ?  Right !  Where  is 
the  wrong?  These  men  are  not  sold  to  Barker; 
they  are  under  no  obligation  to  buy  from  him.  If 
I  go  into  business,  I  must  sell  to  men  who  have 
been  somebody's  customers.  Anyhow,  he  has  money 
enough;,  it  is  time  that  he  gave  place  to  those  who 
have  their  fortunes  to  make.  I  shall  not  get  an- 
other such  offer  soon,  and  I  would  be  a  fool  not  to 
accept  this." 

When  Granger  saw  the  merchant  who  had  made 
the  proposal,  he  was  ready  to  treat  with  him.  It 
was  finally  agreed  that  he  should  remain  with  Mr. 
Barker  during  the  spring  trade,  in  order  to  influence 
his  best  customers  as  much  as  possible,  and  then 
get  ready  to  open  by  fall  with  an  entirely  new  and 
extensive  assortment  of  goods. 

When  the  customers  of  Mr.  Barker  received  the 


1J8  PRINCIPLE   AND    INTEREST. 


Circular  of  Granger  &  Grant,  they  very  generally 
felt  inclined  to  encourage  the  new  firm  for  the  sake 
of  Granger,  who  was  a  favourite  with  nearly  all  of 
them.  He  had  personally  informed  them  of  his 
intention  to  go  into  business,  backed  by  a  heavy 
amount  of  capital,  and  promised  to  sell  them  on  a 
little  better  terms  than  Mr.  Barker  had  ever  given 
them.  It  is  not,  therefore,  at  all  surprising  that  a 
very  large  proportion  of  Barker's  old  customers 
made  pretty  heavy  bills  with  the  new  firm,  where 
they  bought,  or  at  least  were  made  to  believe  that 
they  bought,  goods  at  much  better  rates  than  they 
had  been  in  the  habit  of  obtaining  at  the  old  house. 
The  effect  of  this  upon  the  business  of  Mr.  Bar- 
ker was  clearly  marked.  Instead  of  selling  some 
two  hundred  thousand  dollars  worth  of  goods  in  a 
year,  his  trade  fell  off  nearly  one-half,  and  was  not 
restored  again.  The  mass  of  his  old  customers,  who 
had  dealt  with  him  for  years,  were  drawn  off  by 
Granger,  and  his  house  was  not  likely  to  make  many 
new  ones;  but  he  did  not  know  how  industrious  the 
young  man  had  been  in  sapping  his  business,  nor 
suspect  that  unfair  means  had  been  used.  Even 
if  he  had  known  this,  he  would  have  had  no  just 
cause  of  complaint;  for  having  undermined  the 
young  man's  principles,  he  could  not  be  surprised 
if,  in  the  pursuit  of  his  own  interest,  he  disregarded 
that  of  every  one  else — his  employer's  among  the 
rest. 


PRINCIPLE   AND    INTEREST.  170 


"  That  Granger  is  going  to  be  a  rich  man/'  said 
a  neighbour  to  the  old  merchant. 

"  Yes/'  was  the  reply.  "  He's  got  the  right  kind 
of  stuff  in  him,  and  is  keen  as  a  razor  at  a  bargain. 
In  ten  years  from  now,  if  he  doesn't  overreach  him- 
self, he  will  be  far  in  advance  of  most  men  in  this 
street.  Would  you  have  believed  it  ?  when  he  first 
came  to  me,  he  had  a  conscience  quite  as  tender  as 
a  parson's.  In  selling  to  a  customer,  he  would  be 
as  careful  to  set  forth  all  the  defects  as  he  would  the 
excellences  of  a  piece  of  goods.  He  was  for  even- 
handed  justice  all  around." 

"  I  should  think  you  found  him  a  great  advantage 
to  your  establishment,"  said  the  neighbour,  appear- 
ing quite  amused  at  the  fact  of  a  salesman  putting 
the  interest  of  a  customer  upon  a  par  with  that  of 
his  employer. 

"  Not  much  at  first,  I  must  own ;  but  I  saw  that 
he  was  active,  quick,  shrewd,  and  anxious  to  rise  in 
the  world,  and  I  knew  that  all  he  wanted  was  a  hint 
or  two,  which  I  gave.  After  that,  there  was  no 
more  difficulty.  He  could  sell  as  many  goods  as 
any  one  in  the  store." 

"  He's  cutting  into  your  business  pretty  seriously 
now,  is  he  not  ?" 

"  I'm  afraid  he  is;  but  I  suppose  it's  all  right." 

"  You  sharpened  him  ?"  remarked  the  neighbour, 
with  a  significant  expression. 

"  Yes/'    was  rather  dryly  answered.      "  And  1 


180  PRINCIPLE  AND   INTEREST. 


rather  think  I  have  made  him  too  keen  even  for 
myself/'  he  added  mentally. 

He  was  certainly  right  there. 

The  young  man  with  whom  Granger  had  become 
associated  in  business  was  no  match  for  him  in 
shrewdness,  though  active  and  industrious;  and 
Granger  soon  managed  to  make  him  as  much  a  ci- 
pher in  the  concern  as  possible.  In  this  there  was 
a  design.  By  means  of  the  capital  which  Grant 
could  command,  he  knew  that  he  could  build  up  a 
large  business ;  and  he  meant,  the  moment  his  own 
share  of  profit  in  the  concern  was  large  enough, 
added  to  his  credit,  to  sustain  him  alone,  to  get  rid 
of  his  partner,  and  secure  the  entire. income  of  the 
business  to  himself. 

The  impression  made  by  the  new  house  upon  the 
business  of  Mr.  Barker,  proved  to  be  a  more  serious 
matter  than  either  Granger  or  the  old  merchant  had 
anticipated.  At  the  close  of  the  very  first  business 
season  after  the  new  firm  had  been  fairly  launched 
upon  the  sea  of  trade,  Barker  had  nearly  fifty  thou- 
sand dollars  worth  of  fall  goods  on  hand,  his  pur- 
chases having  exceeded  his  ordinary  sales  nearly 
that  amount;  and  upon  these  he  lost  much  more 
than  all  his  profits  upon  what  he  did  sell.  In  the 
spring  he  again  miscalculated  in  buying,  and  in  the 
ensuing  fall  committed  the  same  error.  From  that 
time,  the  tide  fairly  set  against  him;  his  assortment 
of  goods  was  not  so  large  and  tempting  as  it  had 


PRINCIPLE   AND   INTEREST.  181 


been,  and  Granger  &  Grant  were  all  the  rage  among 
the  country  dealers. 

At  the  end  of  five  years,  Barker  was  worth  just 
half  what  he  was  when  he  made  the  successful 
attack  upon  his  clerk's  principles,  in  order  to  secure 
his  own  interest.  By  that  time,  Granger  considered 
himself  quite  strong  enough  to  stand  alone  in  busi- 
ness, and  began  to  reflect  seriously  upon  the  best 
mode  of  getting  rid  of  his  partner,  whom  he  now 
considered  of  about  as  much  use  as  the  fifth  wheel 
to  a  coach.  In  this,  however,  he  rather  underrated 
Mr.  Grant,  who  had,  in  a  connection  of  five  years- 
with  a  man  as  keen  for  his  own  interest  as  was- 
Granger,  cut,  as  the  saying  is,  his  eye-teeth.  He 
was  rather  wider  awake  than  his  partner  suspected. 

Fifty  thousand  dollars,  according  to  the  books  of 
the  firm,  had  been  made  by  each  member  in  the 
co-partnership.  With  a  capital  of  fifty  thousand 
dollars,  and  the  unlimited  credit  which  he  believed 
he  could  command,  Granger  felt  that  he  could  do- 
business  enough  to  net  at  least  twenty  thousand 
dollars  a  year,  and  with  that  he  thought  he  would 
be  satisfied.  As  to  the  custom  of  the  house,  he  was 
sure  that  he  could  take  that  with  him.  The  capital 
which  his  partner  had  furnished,  he  considered  a 
small  matter  in  comparison  with  his  business  talents 
and  facilities. 

After  thinking  of  the  matter  for  some  time,  and 
regarding  it  in  all  the  aspects  it  might  possibly 


182  PRINCIPLE   AND    INTEREST. 


assume,  Granger  determined  to  give  notice  of  his 
wish  to  have  the  partnership  terminate.  When  this 
was  done,  he  was  rather  surprised  at  the  reply — 
"  Yes,  I  am  aware  that  such  is  your  desire/'  made 
with  the  utmost  coolness. 

"  In  what  way  did  you  gain  this  information  ?" 
asked  Granger,  exhibiting  some  confusion. 

"  From  Mr.  Archer/'  returned  Grant,  in  his  usual 
<juiet  way.  "  He  mentioned  it  to  me  some  weeks 
ago." 

"He  did?'*  ejaculated  Granger,  now  colouring 
deeply. 

Archer  was  one  of  their  best  customers,  to  whom 
Granger  had  communicated  what  was  in  his  mind, 
in  order  to  secure  him  when  he  got  under  way  for 
himself. 

"  Yes ;  and  I  have  been  expecting  to  hear  from 
you  on  the  subject  daily,  ever  since." 

"Then  of  course  your  mind  is  made  up,"  said 
Granger. 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  am  ready  for  a  dissolution  of  the  co 
partnership ;  and,  indeed,  desire  it,  since  you  have 
ceased  to  be  content  with  the  present  arrangement/' 

There  was  a  coolness  about  Grant  that  Granger 
by  no  means  liked;  and  he  felt  too  well  assured 
that  both  he  and  his  father  were  aware  of  the  hand 
he  was  endeavouring  to  play  against  them.  The 
fact  of  Archer's  having  mentioned  what  he  had  said 
to  him;  had  forewarned  them. 


PRINCIPLE   AND   INTEREST.  183 


The  terms  of  settlement  were  by  no  means  what 
G ranger  had  anticipated.  He  had  supposed  thai 
his  partner  would  be  ready  to  pay  him  an  estimated 
proportion  of  profits,  and  continue  the  business. 
This  would  have  given  him  the  capital  he  wanted, 
and  he  trusted  to  his  own  sagacity  to  enable  him  to 
draw  off  the  best  custom  to  his  new  establishment ; 
but  Grant  and  his  long-headed  father  understood  all 
this  very  well,  and  would  listen  to  no  proposition 
of  the  kind.  The  only  thing  to  which  they  would 
agree  was  a  regular  settlement  of  the  business,  each 
party  to  receive  his  proportion  of  profit  as  fast  as  it 
was  realized.  As  neither  of  the  partners  was  will- 
ing that  the  other  should  continue  the  business,  it 
was  finally  agreed  that  a  trustee  should  be  appointed 
to  settle  it  up,  and  each  party,  in  the  interim,  be 
free  to  make  what  new  arrangements  he  chose. 

A  new  arrangement  was  no  difficult  matter  for 
Grant,  whose  father  could  furnish  as  much  capital 
as  he  wanted.  In  a  month  from  the  time  a  disso- 
lution between  him  and  Granger  was  announced,  the 
circulars  of  "  Grant  &  Co.,  successors  to  Granger  & 
Grant,"  were  flying  over  the  country  and  their 
business  spread  before  three-fourths  of  the  best 
custom  of  the  old  firm. 

Foiled  in  his  scheme,  Granger  fully  expected  an 
advantageous  offer  to  go  into  business  within  a  week 
after  the  announcement  of  his  dissolution  with 
Grant;  but  in  this  he  happened  to  be  mistaken. 


J84        PRINCIPLE  AND  INTEREST. 

The  surprise  created  by  the  dissolution,  and  espe- 
cially by  the  terms  of  it,  which  completely  destroyed 
a  large  and  flourishing  business,  set  every  one  to 
asking  questions ;  and  the  father  of  Grant  was  very 
ready  to  give  the  true  version,  with  liberal  embel- 
lishments and  comments  of  his  own.  This  was 
repeated  with  exaggerations  in  business  circles,  and 
fixed  upon  Granger  a  reputation  that  made  a  con- 
nection with  him  by  no  means  desirable. 

By  the  end  of  a  year,  he  had  received  fifteen 
thousand  dollars  from  the  old  business.  The  settle- 
ment progressed  slowly,  and  the  sequel  proved  that 
many  bad  debts  had  been  made. 

With  this  small  capital,  Granger  determined  to 
enter  into  business,  feeling  confident  that  he  could 
not  only  buy  to  any  extent  he  might  desire,  but 
have  as  many  of  his  old  customers  as  he  wanted.  In 
both  these  conclusions,  he  happened  to  be  in  error. 
As  a  buyer,  he  found  that  Abiram  Granger  was  not 
so  potent  a  name  as  that  of  the  old  firm — Granger 
&  Grant.  During  the  first  year  in  which  he  carried 
on  business  in  his  own  name,  he  received  five  thou- 
sand dollars  from  the  trustee  of  Granger  &  Grant, 
and  lost  five  thousand  dollars  by  buying  too  many 
goods.  In  the  second  year,  a  final  settlement  of  the 
old  concern  was  made,  and  six  thousand  dollars 
paid  to  him  as  the  balance  of  profit.  Instead  of 
having  made  fifty  thousand  dollars  in  five  years,  he 
realized  but  twenty  thousand.  This  would  have 


PRINCIPLE  AND   INTEREST.  186 


been  very  well,  if  his  cupidity  had  not  unsettled  his 
mind. 

Three  years  sufficed  to  wind  up  Granger's  opera- 
tions on  his  own  account.  In  his  eagerness  to  do  a 
lar^business,  and  to  throw  Grant  &  Co.,  if  possi- 
ble, into  the  shade,  he  sold  goods  to  almost  every 
country  merchant  who  came  along,  and  there  were 
enough  of  doubtful  credit  to  buy  from  him  as  much 
as  he  was  willing  to  sell  them.  The  consequence 
was  a  total  failure,  and  inability  to  pay  over  fifty 
cents  on  the  dollar,  after  having  sunk  his  entire 
capital.  And  what  was  a  little  singular,  by  the 
failure  of  Granger,  Barker,  who  had  first  tampered 
with  his  strictly  honest  principles,  lost  ton  thousand 
dollars. 

The  young  man  never  got  on  his  feet  again,  and 
is,  to  this  day,  a  clerk  on  a  moderate  salary,  while 
the  new  firm  of  Grant  &  Co.  are  reputed  to  be  worth 
every  cent  of  two  hundred  thousand  dollars. 

So  much  for  the  subserviency  of  principle  to  in- 
terest. In  the  long  run,  strict  honesty  is,  doubtless, 
the  best  policy.  The  position  taken  by  Barker, 
that  the  seller  must  consult  his  own  interest  alone, 
and  let  the  buyer  take  care  of  himself,  is  not  a  just 
one ;  nor  is  the  entire  disregard  of  the  buyer's  in- 
terests by  any  means  necessary  to  success  in  busi- 
ness. Men  generally  think  so;  but  we  are  satisfied 
that  it  is  an  error  more  fatal  to  success  than  any 
one  of  the  many  common  errors  that  prevail  among 

16* 


180  IS   IT    SAFE?   IS    IT   HONEST? 


business  men.  The  direct  result  is  often  beneficial, 
but  ultimate  results,  the  causes  of  which  are  too 
rarely  seen  and  recognised,  could  they  be  traced 
back,  step  by  step,  would  show  that  the  smallest  act 
of  overreaching  is  an  injury  instead  of  a  benefit. 


IS  IT  SAFE?    IS  IT  HONEST? 


MARTIN  AVERT  had  been  in  business  about  five 
years.  His  capital,  in  the  beginning,  was  small, 
and,  in  consequence,  his  operations  were  confined 
within  a  narrower  limit  than  suited  his  ambition. 
He  often  sighed  for  the  credit  which  some  of  hi^ 
neighbours  enjoyed;  and  frequently  pondered  on  the 
ways  and  means  for  obtaining  like  facilities  in  trade. 
The  profits  on  Mr.  Avery's  business  were  not  large; 
and  he  had,  therefore,  to  live  plainly  and  frugally. 
His  dwelling  was  obtained  at  a  moderate  rent;  his 
furniture  was  far  from  elegant;  and  he  never  gave 
fashionable  entertainments.  Yet,  for  all  this,  his  an- 
nual profits,  after  every  expense  was  paid,  presented, 
to  one  of  his  temperament,  a  discouragingly  small 
amount.  Still,  he  was  gaining  on  the  world;  and,  if 
\ie  had  known  it,  that  was  a  good  deal  more  than  all 
of  his  apparently  flourishing  neighbours  were  doing. 


IS   IT   SAFE?   IS   IT   HONEST?  187 


"  Why  do  you  plod  along  after  this  fashion  ?" 
said  an  acquaintance  to  him  one  day.  "  You  ought 
to  launch  out  and  do  a  bigger  business." 

"  Haven't  got  the  capital/'  was  the  frank  reply. 

"  Borrow  it,  then.  There  is  plenty  of  capital  in 
the  market." 

"  Yes,  for  those  who  have  real  estate  to  pledge." 

"  That  isn't  always  necessary.  You  may  enlarge 
your  facilities  without  any  thing  of  the  kind.  The 
fact  is,  Avery,  you  are  toe  timid.  You  keep  too 
near  the  shore.  If  you  expect  to  make  a  fortune, 
you  must  dash  out,  and  attract  attention.  To  be 
frank  with  you,  and  to  begin  at  the  beginning,  your 
style  of  living  is  too  plain." 

"  It  is  quite  as  good  as  I  can  afford." 

"  How  much  house-rent  do  you  pay  ?" 

"  Two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars." 

"  And  what  for  your  store  ?" 

"  Seven  hundred." 

"  A  wide  difference." 

"  But  the  store-rent  comes  as  an  expense  upon  my 
business.  I  must  have  a  good  stand  and  a  hand- 
some store,  if  I  expect  to  get  custom." 

"And  if  you  expect  to  get  liberal  credits,  you 
must  have  a  handsome  dwelling,  and  live  as  a  man 
who  is  prospering  in  trade  would  be  expected  to 
live.  Add  a  couple  of  hundred  dollars  to  your  house- 
rent,  and  call  it  an  unavoidable  business  expense, 
if  you  will.  Buy  elegant  furniture  on  the  same 


188  IS   IT    SAFE?   IS   IT    HONEST? 


principle ;  and  give  a  grand  party  once  or  twice  a 
year.  Depend  upon  it,  all  this  is  just  as  necessary 
to  success  as  a  store  handsomely  fitted  up  and  in  a 
good  situation." 

"  I  never  took  that  view  of  it,"  said  Avery. 

"Just  the  reason  why  you  have  progressed  so  slowly. 
Every  one  is  ready  to  push  on  the  successful.  Every 
one  is  ready  to  sell  liberally  to  those  who  give  out  the 
signs  of  success,  whether  they  are,  at  first,  real  or  not. 
I  started  on  this  plan,  with  less  capital  than  you 
began  with ;  and  now  I  own  the  elegant  house  in 
which  I  live,  and  consider  myself  worth  every  cent 
of  forty  thousand  dollars.  There  was  a  time  when 
I  spent  in  my  living  twice  as  much  as  I  made  in  the 
year.  But  I  understood  clearly  the  game  I  was  play- 
ing j  and  all  has  come  out  right." 

u  There  is  some  reason  in  what  you  say,  I  must 
own,"  remarked  Avery,  upon  whose  mind  a  new 
light  was  breaking. 

"  There  is  a  great  deal  of  reason  in  it,  let  me  tell 
you.  All  you  have  to  do  is  to  throw  out  the  signs 
of  success,  and  then  every  one  will  believe  you  are 
making  a  fortune.  At  New  Year's,  no  matter  how 
your  business  may  stand,  put  on  a  cheerful  air,  and 
tell  a  few  of  your  friends,  confidentially  of  course, 
that  you  have  made,  during  the  previous  twelve- 
month, a  clear  profit  of  fifteen  thousand  dollars. 
They  will  believe  it,  and  so  will  eight  out  of  ten  to 
whom  they  relate  the  story  of  your  success." 


IS   IT   SAFE?   IS   IT   HONEST?  189 


"  I  should  call  that  lying/'  said  A  very. 

"Call  it  what  you  please/'  returned  the  other, 
shrugging  his  shoulders.  t(  It's  the  way  the  thing  is 
done.  You  know  Tompkins  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"To  my  certain  knowledge,  he  lost,  year  before 
last,  more  than  his  whole  profit  for  two  years.  Did 
he  look  grave  about  it  ?  Not  he !  He  gave  out 
that  he  had  cleared  over  thirty  thousand  dollars; 
and  what  is  more,  people  believed  him.  The  con- 
sequence was,  that  every  one  was  ready  to  sell  to  a 
merchant  who  had  been  so  successful;  and  his 
paper  was  A  No.  1  in  the  market.  An  almost 
unlimited  credit  enabled  him  to  double  his  business 
during  the  past  year,  and  to  fully  redeem  himself. 
Now,  suppose  he  had  put  on  a  long  face  about  the 
matter,  and  let  the  truth  leak  out.  He  would  have 
been  ruined." 

"  Probably.  But  1  can  hardly  think  it  right  to 
make  so  deliberate  a  falsification.7' 

"  As  to  its  being  right  or  wrong/'  replied  the 
friend,  "  that  I  leave  for  persons  of  tender  consciences 
to  determine.  If  you  begin  to  stickle  on  matters  of 
this  kind,  you  had  better  quit  business  at  once ;  for 
you  know  as  well  as  I  do,  that,  in  almost  every 
transaction  we  make,  there  is  a  reservation  or  af- 
firmation that  is  really  meant  to  deceive  those  with 
whom  we  are  dealing.  Let  the  whole  truth  of  your 
circumstances  be  known,  or  tell  precisely  the  charac- 


190  IS   IT   SAFE?   IS   IT    HONEST? 


ter  of  your  goods,  and  your  business  will  diminish 
instead  of  increasing." 

"I'm  afraid  there  is  some  truth  in  your  remark/' 
said  Avery,  half  sighing  as  he  spoke.  "People 
will  be  deceived." 

"  And  we  have  to  deceive  them." 

The  young  merchant  pondered  over  what  was 
said  on  this  occasion,  long  and  seriously.  And  the 
more  he  thought  of  it,  the  more  did  he  feel  inclined 
to  adopt  at  least  some  of  the  suggestions  offered  ; 
particularly  those  in  regard  to  his  style  of  living. 
It  took  him  some  time  to  make  up  his  mind  to  do 
this.  He  had  been  able,  at  the  close  of  each  year, 
to  determine  a  clear  profit  of  one  or  two  thousand 
dollars,  limited  as  he  considered  his  business ;  but, 
while  his  neighbours  were  making  their  ten  and 
twenty  thousand  dollars,  annually,  this  seemed  like 
mere  plodding.  He  had  tried  to  extend  his  credit, 
but  those  with  whom  he  dealt  rather  held  back, 
and  he  thought  it  prudent  not  to  urge  the  matter. 
Several  times,  he  had  thrown  into  the  bank,  where 
he  kept  his  account,  good  notes ;  but  only  on  two 
or  three  occasions  did  he  succeed  in  obtaining  dis- 
counts. He  was  not  of  sufficient  importance  in  the 
business  community  to  receive  favours  of  this  kind. 
And  so  he  had  moved  along,  quietly,  slowly,  but 
safely.  His  business,  though  not  large,  was  healthy, 
and  entirely  within  his  control ;  and,  with  prudence 
and  economy  in  personal  matters,  promised  in  the 


IS   IT   SAFE?   IS   IT   HONEST?  191 


end  to  become  large  and  prosperous.  But  the  time 
seemed  very  far  away,  and  he  naturally  grew  im- 
patient. 

Soon  after  the  interview  just  mentioned,  Avery 
}>egan  to  speak  more  frequently  to  others  of  his 
business,  and  to  talk  of  the  handsome  profits  he  was 
making.  This,  once  begun,  was  easily  continued. 
The  most  difficult  thing  was  to  commence  a  system 
of  exaggeration;  all  came  easy  enough  after  that. 
Like  a  stream  which  is  small  in  the  beginning,  but 
increases  as  it  flows  on,  the  new  system  adopted  by 
Avery  assumed,  ere  long,  quite  an  imposing  form. 
As  his  prompter  in  the  matter  had  said,  so  it  turned 
out;  people  really  believed  all  that  he  said.  And, 
further,  those  who  had  goods  to  sell  were  more  ur- 
gent for  him  to  increase  his  bills,  and  some  offered 
him  a  more  liberal  credit  than  they  had  before  been 
willing  to  extend. 

Avery  felt  a  little  surprised,  although  he  had 
made  an  effort  to  produce  just  this  effect. 

"  He  was  right,  after  all,"  he  remarked  to  him- 
self, while  turning  over  the  matter  in  his  thoughts. 
"  How  easily  people  are  deceived  !  I  could  hardly 
have  believed  that  a  little  bragging  would  have 
produced  such  a  change.  If  our  wholesale  dealers 
are  to  be  caught  with  such  chaff,  they  shall  have 
enough  of  it." 

After  once  entering  upon  this  system  of  decep- 
tion, Avery  saw  no  evil  in  it.  To  increase  his  busi- 


192  IS   IT    SAFE?   IS    IT    HONEST? 


ness  facilities  was  a  thing  of  the  utmost  importance, 
and  if  it  was  to  be  done  so  easily,  and  without,  as  ho 
said  to  himself,  hurting  any  one,  of  course  there 
was  no  harm  in  a  little  exaggeration. 

"  Still  hiding  yourself  away/'  said  the  individual 
that  had  tempted  Avery  from  the  right  path.  "  Why 
don't  you  come  forward,  socially,  as  you  are  evidently 
doing  in  a  business  point  of  view  ?  I  heard  Felt- 
well  and  Glenn  say  of  you,  the  other  day,  that  you 
were  bound  to  make  a  fortune/' 

"  Ah  !     I  hope  they  may  prove  true  prophets/' 

"  Of  course  they  will,  if  you  are  wise  enough  to 
improve  the  opportunities  placed  within  your  reach/' 

"  Why  did  they  say  this  ?" 

"  I  spoke  of  the  handsome  business  you  were 
doing,  and  they  not  only  agreed  with  me,  but  volun- 
teered to  predict  the  ultimate  result/' 

"They  were  always  very  careful  not  to  sell  n*e 
beyond  a  certain  limit/' 

"That  was  before  you  gave  out  that  you  were 
doing  a  handsome  business.  You  needn't  fear  now. 
They  will  sell  you  as  freely  as  you  like." 

"  The  last  time  I  was  in  their  store,  they  had  H 
great  many  goods  to  show  me,  and  were  exceedingly 
affable." 

"  Of  course.  They  see  the  wind  in  your  sails, 
and  imagine  you  to  be  going  just  twice  as  fast  a# 
you  are.  Now,  you  must  keep  up  this  illusion.  A 
man  who  is  doing  well,  generally  lives  well.  Youi 


IS   IT    SAFE?   IS   IT    HONEST?  193 


next  step  must  be  to  exhibit  a  style  of  living  in 
correspondence  with  your  supposed  condition.  You 
must  move  into  a  handsome  house,  buy  handsome 
furniture,  and  let  the  people  see  the  evidence  of 
your  prosperity." 

"  It  costs  something  to  do  that." 

"  I  know  it  does ;  but  it  is  so  much  money  well 
laid  out,  and  will  come  back  to  you  in  due  time." 

Thus  instigated,  Avery,  after  turning  the  matter 
over  and  over  in  his  mind,  concluded  that  his  friend 
was  right.  And  so  a  house  at  five  hundred  dollars 
was  taken,  and  a  thousand  dollars  worth  of  new 
furniture  purchased. 

"  That  Avery 's  getting  along,"  said  one  and  an- 
other, as  this  new  sign  of  prosperity  appeared. 

"  He's  active,  shrewd,  and  persevering,"  would 
be  replied.  "  He's  sure  to  make  his  fortune." 

Yet,  how  did  the  case  actually  stand  ?  Why, 
thus  :  In  consequence  of  having  boasted  of  the  fine 
profits  he  was  making,  several  houses  with  whom  he 
dealt  were  led  to  offer  him  tempting  inducements 
to  enlarge  his  purchases,  and  he  had  done  so.  ID 
fact,  he  had  bought  at  least  a  third  more  goods  than 
during  a  like  period  in  the  preceding  year.  There 
are  two  important  operations  in  business — buying 
and  selling.  If  a  man  buys  freely,  he  must  also  sell 
freely;  and  it  is  always  easier  to  buy  than  to  sell. 
Hitherto,  Mr.  Avery  had  done  a  very  safe  business; 
all  his  customers  were  good,  and  bought  from  him 

IX.— 17 


194  IS   IT    SAFE?   IS   IT    HONEST? 


at  prices  that  paid  him  a  fair  profit.  But  now, 
having  increased  his  stock  of  goods  by  liberal  pur- 
chases on  credit,  it  became  necessary  to  exert  him- 
self a  little  more  in  the  selling  department;  a  man 
may  sell  a  great  many  goods,  if  he  is  not  over  care- 
ful as  to  the  ability  of  those  to  whom  he  sells.  This 
Avery  also  found  out;  his  eagerness  to  sell,  led  him 
into  the  error  of  giving  credit  where  he  had  before 
deemed  it  wise  to  withhold  it,  or  only  to  sell  in 
small  amounts.  Bills  accumulated  in  his  pocket- 
book,  and,  as  heavier  payments  than  usual  began, 
after  a  few  months,  to  fall  due,  he  found  it  neces- 
sary to  turn  these  bills  into  cash.  So  he  threw 
gome  of  them  into  the  bank  where  he  kept  his  ac- 
count. A  little  to  his  surprise,  for  he  didn't  calcu- 
late very  confidently  on  getting  the  money  for  them, 
they  were  discounted.  There  were  among  the  direc- 
tors of  the  bank,  two  or  three  men  who  happened 
to  have  observed  his  prosperous  indications,  and 
they  said  a  word  in  his  favour. 

A  doubt  had  crossed  the  mind  of  Avery  as  to  the 
wisdom  of  the  course  he  had  adopted.  It  vanished 
now.  A  year  before,  this  same  bank  had  repeatedly 
rejected  all  his  offerings ;  now  it  recognised  him  a* 
one  worth  regarding.  He  laughed  to  himself,  and 
went  on  his  way. 

The  result  of  the  two  years'  operations  following 
immediately  after  this  change  in  A  very 's  system  of 
doing  business  was  not,  as  flattering  to  the  young 


IS   IT   SAFE?   IS   IT   HONEST?  195 


man  as  he  had  hoped  it  would  be.  New  furniture, 
increased  rent,  a  more  expensive  style  of  living, 
and  certain  extravagances  of  his  wife  to  which  he 
consented,  such  as  a  gold  watch,  diamond  pin,  rich 
and  costly  clothing,  and  the  like,  abstracted  from  his 
capital,  during  the  time,  a  sum  that  did  not  fall  very 
short  of  five  thousand  dollars.  All  this  was  but  a 
part  of  the  system  of  putting  on  an  appearance  of  pros- 
perity for  the  sake  of  inspiring  business  confidence. 

It  is  no  matter  of  surprise,  that  Avery  found,  in 
the  course  of  three  or  four  years,  that,  instead  of 
driving  his  business,  his  business  was  driving  him. 
Having  once  left  the  safe  and  sure  way,  he  met  with 
temptations  at  every  step — temptations  to  enlarge 
and  extend  his  operations.  Enlargement  and  ex- 
tension created  new  obligations,  and  to  meet  these, 
when  they  came  due,  was  not  always  the  easiest 
matter  in  the  world.  A  system  of  money-raising, 
through  divers  expedients,  was  adjoined  to  his 
regular  business,  and  required  actually  more  of  his 
time  and  occupied  more  of  his  thoughts  than  his 
ordinary  mercantile  transactions. 

Still,  he  counted  his  profits  by  thousands,  and 
every  year  threw  out  some  new  sign  of  prosperity, 
meant  to  conceal,  the  actual  state  of  his  affairs, 
which  was  nearer  being  desperate  than  he  ima- 
gined, in  extravagant  living,  he  had  consumed 
more  than  all  his  real  profits,  and,  by  forcing  sales, 
he  had  made  many  bad  debts.  The  enlargement  of 


196  IS   IT   SAFE?   IS   IT   HONEST? 


his  ideas  had  caused  him  to  make  bolder,  and. 
consequently,  more  imprudent  operations;  all  of 
which  helped  to  make  his  position  as  a  merchant  far 
from  being  a  safe  one.  Indeed,  at  the  very  time 
that  he  boasted  of  clearing  twenty  thousand  dollars 
a  year,  he  was  actually  bankrupt.  Yet  people, 
taking  him  at  his  word,  believed  him  to  be  making 
a  fortune.  While  an  honest,  prudent  man,  whose 
small  business  was  making  an  actual  profit  every 
year  over  and  above  all  his  expenses,  could  not  get 
an  accommodation  in  bank  for  one  hundred  dollars, 
he  could  draw  out  his  thousands  !  And  why  ?  Be- 
cause he  deceived  by  false  appearances.  In  fact,  his 
whole  business  and  domestic  life  was  a  lie !  In 
order  to  keep  up  a  good  credit,  he  resorted  to  this, 
among  other  tricks.  He  kept  three  bank  accounts; 
and  generally  passed  the  same  money  through  them 
all.  Having  obtained  a  discount  in  one  of  these 
banks,  or  made  collections  through  it,  he  drew  out 
the  money  and  deposited  it  in  another  bank  with 
which  he  did  business.  After  letting  it  lie  here 
for  one  or  two  days,  a  part  or  the  whole  was  de- 
posited in  another  bank ;  and  it  generally  came  back 
to  the  first  before  it  was  finally  used.  In  order  still 
further  to  make  a  good  impression,  he  frequently 
borrowed  sums  of  money  for  a  few  days,  and  passed 
them  into  bank,  where  they  were  permitted  to  lie 
until  the  day  came  round  for  them  to  be  returned, 
when  he  handed  checks  to  the  parties  from  whom 


IS   IT   SAFE?   IS   IT    HONEST?  197 


the  loans  had  been  obtained.  All  this  was  done  to 
give  the  appearance  of  a  large  business. 

In  the  midst  of  this  experiment,  and  at  a  time 
when  it  was  on  the  eve  of  proving  a  failure,  a  widow, 
named  Barclay,  who  had  received  some  property, 
called  upon  him,  and  asked  him  to  give  her  some 
directions  in  regard  to  its  safe  and  profitable  invest- 
ment. She  had  three  children  to  raise  and  educate, 
and  the  property  which  had  just  been  obtained, 
after  a  prolonged  suit  at  law,  was  but  ten  thousand 
dollars. 

On  the  very  day  upon  which  this  lady  called  to 
see  Avery,  he  had  been  making  some  pretty  close 
calculations  in  regard  to  his  business,  and  the  result 
caused  him  to  feel  rather  serious.  The  amount  of 
money  to  pay,  in  the  coming  three  or  four  months, 
was  most  appalling.  How  it  was  to  be  raised,  he 
could  not  imagine.  Already  he  had  strained  his 
credit,  in  the  way  of  accommodations,  as  far  as  he 
deemed  it  prudent  to  go;  and  no  new  resource 
opened  before  his  searching  mind.  Mrs.  Barclay's 
visit  appeared,  therefore,  quite  opportune.  The 
moment  she  announced  the  fact  that  she  had  ten 
thousand  dollars  to  invest,  he  made  up  his  mind  to 
get  the  use  of  it  in  his  business,  if  possible ;  and 
commenced,  immediately,  his  approaches  towards 
that  point.  He  first  made  kind  inquiries  into  the 
particulars  of  her  circumstances,  manifesting  a  lively 
sympathy  at  every  step  of  her  relation.  Thus  he 
i:* 


198  IS   IT    SAFE?  IS   IT   HONEST? 


became  aware  of  the  fact  that  these  ten  thousand 
dollars  made  up  the  whole  amount  of  her  property, 
and  that  in  the  income  therefrom  she  was  to  find  the 
means  of  raising  and  educating  her  children. 

"  You  ought  to  have  more  than  four  or  five  hun- 
dred dollars  for  that  purpose,"  said  A  very,  evincing 
much  interest  in  the  widow. 

"Very  true,"  she  replied.  "And  will  I  not  be 
able  to  get  a  better  interest  than  that  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  ordinary  investments.  Ground-rents 
are  safe,  but  from  these  you  would  not,  probably, 
receive,  after  deducting  taxes,  over  four  hundred 
dollars,  perhaps  not  so  much." 

Mrs.  Barclay  shook  her  head  disapprovingly. 

"  Stocks  pay  five  or  six  per  cent.,  and  sometimes 
more ;  but  so  much  money  has  been  lost  on  stocks, 
that  I,  for  one,  feel  afraid  of  them." 

"  So  do  I,"  returned  Mrs.  Barclay.  "  I  know 
several  persons  who  have  lost  their  all  in  this  way. 
[  wouldn't  like  to  put  my  money  out  in  stocks  of 
any  kind.  Don't  real  estate — houses,  I  mean — pay 
well?" 

"  Not  such  as  you  can  buy.  Taxes,  repairs,  in- 
surance, and  a  dozen  other  expenses,  run  away  with 
half  the  rent  at  least." 

"  Some  one  mentioned  that  Government  securi- 
ties were  desirable  as  an  investment." 

"  So  they  are,  if  you  have  enough  money  to  invest. 
But  you,  madam,  ought  to  have  at  least  a  thousand 


IS   IT   SAFE?   IS   IT   HONEST?  199 


dollars  income,  and  United  States  scrip  will  not  pay 
you  over  half  that/' 

"  Yes,  I  ought  to  have  a  thousand  dollars  in- 
come," said  the  widow,  and  she  looked  thoughtful 
and  serious. 

a  There  is  one  way  in  which  you  might  obtain  a 
better  income  from  your  little  property,"  said  Avery, 
after  seeming  to  reflect  for  some  moments. 

"  What  is  that  ?"  was  eagerly  inquired. 

"  Money  is  worth  more  in  business  than  in  any 
other  way ;  which  is  one  reason  why  men,  who  have 
capital  at  their  command,  engage  in  business.  There 
are  many  substantial  merchants  who  are  always 
using  extra  capital ;  some  of  these  would,  no  doubt, 
be  willing  to  receive  your  money,  and  pay  you  ten 
per  cent,  for  its  use ;  they  would  make  thirty  out 
of  it,  perhaps  fifty.  In  this  way  you  would  realize 
more  than  in  any  other  mode,  and  your  money  would 
be  as  safe." 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  quite  as  safe ;  some  of  our  business 
men  are  as  substantial  as  rocks.  Many  of  them 
clear  from  fifty  to  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  year- 
ly." 

« Indeed !" 

"  Yes.  My  own  profit  last  year  was  twenty  thou- 
sand dollars ;  and  I  shall  be  disappointed  if  it  does 
not  reach  thirty  thousand  by  the  close  of  the  present 
year." 


200  IS  IT   SAFE?  IS  IT  HONEST? 


"Is  it  possible?" 

"  Oh,  yes.  Fortunes  are  made  rapidly  by  those 
who  understand  how  to  conduct  business.  Capital 
often  doubles  itself  in  a  year." 

"  Then  you  think  the  best  thing  I  can  do,  is  to 
lend  my  money  to  some  safe  merchant?" 

"  In  that  way,  madam,  you  will  obtain  a  better 
income ;  which,  to  you,  is  a  matter  of  the  first  im- 
portance." 

"  It  certainly  is.  Do  you  know  of  any  one  who 
would  take  it,  and  pay  me  the  interest  you  men- 
tioned ?" 

"Well,  no,  I  can't  say  that  I  do.  There  are 
plenty  who  would  gladly  enough  take  your  money, 
but  it  wouldn't  be  safe  to  trust  them.  If  you  invest 
it  in  this  way,  it  should  be  only  with  some  one  of 
undoubted  substantiality." 

"  Couldn't  you  find  profitable  use  for  that  much 
additional  capital  in  your  business?"  asked  Mrs. 
Barclay. 

Now  this  was  coming  to  the  point  much  quicker 
than  Avery  had  any  idea  that  the  lady  would  arrive 
there,  and  he  was  hardly  prepared  with  just  the 
appropriate  answer.  However,  he  thought  hurried- 
ly, and,  after  a  short  silence,  replied — "  I  scarcely 
know  what  answer  to  make  to  that  question,  Mrs. 
Barclay.  I  might  make  use  of  more  capital  with 
advantage;  but  my  bank  facilities  are  large,  and 
money  obtained  from  bank  only  costs  six  per  cent." 


IS  IT   SAFE?  IS   IT   HONEST?  201 


"  But,  if  money  pays  from  thirty  to  fifty  per  cent, 
in  business,  I  should  suppose  it  would  be  worth  your 
while  to  use  it  freely." 

"  True }  and  I  should  very  much  like  to  accom- 
modate you,  especially  when  taking  your  circum- 
stances into  consideration." 

Mr.  A  very  mused  for  some  moments. 

"  Say  you  will  take  my  money  at  ten  per  cent., 
and  all  is  settled  at  once,"  urged  Mrs.  Barclay; 
who,  crediting  every  word  the  unscrupulous  mer- 
chant had  said,  really  believed  that  he  was  one  of 
the  most  substantial  men  in  the  city. 

After  a  good  deal  of  apparent  hesitation,  and  the 
utterance  of  many  objections,  all  of  which  tended  to 
make  the  lady  feel  more  anxious  to  have  him  take 
her  money,  Avery  at  last  consented  to  receive  it  as 
a  permanent  loan,  on  an  interest  of  ten  per  cent., 
and  with  no  other  security  for  it  than  his  simple 
written  acknowledgment  of  the  debt. 

All  this  was  done  by  Mrs.  Barclay  without  con- 
sultation with  a  third  party.  She  had  heard  a  gen- 
tleman, in  the  same  business  with  Mr.  Avery,  speak 
of  the  large  amount  of  money  he  had  made  in  a  few 
years,  and  predict  that  he  would  be  one  of  the  rich- 
est men  in  the  city  before  he  died.  As  Mr.  Avery 
was  a  friend  of  her  deceased  husband,  who  had 
always  spoken  well  of  him,  she  concluded  that  he 
would  be  the  one  whom  she  could  trust  for  sound 
advice  in  the  matter  of  investing  her  little  estate 


202  IS   IT   SAFE?   IS   IT   HONEST? 


When  he  agreed  to  take  her  money,  and  pay  her  ten 
per  cent,  for  its  use,  she  felt  happy;  she  was  now 
sure  of  an  income  sufficient  to  enable  her  to  support 
and  educate  her  children.  Judge,  then,  of  her  sur- 
prise, when,  a  few  days  after  the  arrangement  was 
effected,  she  heard  a  gentleman,  who  belonged  to 
the  old  slow-and-sure-school  of  merchants,  reply  to 
some  remark  made  about  Avery,  in  a  way  that  threw 
over  her  mind  a  doubt  as  to  his  substantiality.  He 
was  referred  to  as  the  purchaser,  at  a  public  sale  on 
the  day  previous,  of  an  elegant  residence. 

This  had  been  determined  upon  as  soon  as  he 
obtained  possession  of  the  widow's  money.  He  did 
not  feel  the  need  of  a  house  of  his  own — he  was 
comfortable  enough  in  all  things  pertaining  to  do- 
mestic affairs;  but  having  so  unexpectedly  obtained 
possession  of  ten  thousand  dollars,  he  deemed  it  a 
wise  move  to  put  on,  by  the  purchase  of  a  handsome 
house,  still  further  appearances  of  wealth.  The 
amount  of  purchase-money  to  be  paid  down  in  cash 
was  but  five  thousand  dollars,  and  it  was  an  easy 
matter,  as  he  reasoned  with  himself,  to  get  it  all 
back  into  his  business  again  by  means  of  a  mortgage. 
To  live  in  a  beautiful  house  of  his  own,  would,  he 
believed,  still  further  increase  the  public  confidence, 
and  widen  the  range  of  his  credit. 

The  remark  made  by  the  individual  just  referred 
to  was — "  He'd  better  keep  his  money  in  his  busi- 
ness. Young  merchants  would  oftener  succeed,  if 


IS   IT    SAFE?    IS   IT   HONEST?  208 


they  were   governed   by   Poor   Richard's   sensible 
idviee  to  little  boats/' 

"  He  has  already  succeeded/'  said  Mrs.  Barclay. 

"  So  people  think." 

"  Don't  you  think  so?"  inquired  the  lady. 

"  People  never  succeeded,  when  I  was  a  young 
man,  in  the  way  he  and  dozens  of  others  around  him 
do  business.  But  perhaps  they  have  found  out  a 
secret  which  we  didn't  know.  This  is  the  age  of 
improvements." 

No  more  was  said;  but  the  lady  felt  troubled. 
She  went,  on  the  next  day,  to  see  the  gentleman  who 
had  spoken  so  confidently  in  regard  to  Mr.  Avery's 
substantiality,  and  frankly  told  him  what  she  had 
done. 

"What  security  did  he  give  you?"  was  his  first 
question. 

"  None  at  all.     I  didn't  require  any." 

"  That  was  wrong." 

u  He  is  perfectly  safe." 

"  I  don't  know.  It  is  a  mental  reservation 
us  merchants,  that  no  man  is  really  safe. 
is  but  a  precarious  matter,  after  all.  I  believe  Mr. 
Av.^ry  to  be  sound  enough,  and,  in  proof  of  thi.s, 
wouid  sell  him  as  many  goods  as  he  might  feel  dis- 
posed to  purchase ;  but  I  would  do  this  with  all  the 
risks  of  business  taken  into  the  calculation.  With 
you  it  is  different.  Your  money  is  your  all,  and 
should  not  be  invested  without  the  most  ample 


20*  IS   IT    SAFE?   IS    IT    HONEST? 


rity.  You  had  better  see  Mr.  Avery,  and  tell  him 
that  a  friend  advised  you  to  ask  him  for  security." 

"  I  don't  like  to  do  that ;  it  would  seem  like 
throwing  a  doubt  upon  his  integrity.  Even  if  any 
thing  should  happen  to  his  business,  I  don't  believe 
he  would  let  me  suffer." 

"  Make  no  calculation  of  that  kind.  When  a 
merchant  gets  into  difficulties,  he  usually  struggles 
on  until  he  is  so  tied,  hand  and  foot,  that  he  can  do 
nothing.  He  may  mean  to  secure  many  such  debts 
as  yours,  without  being  able  to  do  so.  No,  no? 
madam.  You  must  get  ample  security  now,  and  he 
is  bound  to  give  it.  A  few  days  ago,  he  purchased 
a  large  and  beautiful  house.  Insist  upon  having  a 
mortgage  of  that  property." 

"  I  offered  him  the  money,  and  almost  forced  it 
upon  him,"  said  Mrs.  Barclay;  "  how,  then,  can  I 
go  to  him  and  ask  what  you  suggest  ?  He  would 
be,  and  with  cause,  offended." 

"  No  matter.  You  have  committed  an  error,  and 
must,  therefore,  bear  the  unpleasant  consequences. 
There  is  too  much  at  stake  to  let  the  matter  rest 
where  it  is." 

"  Do  you  speak  knowingly  when  you  say  this?" 
asked  Mrs.  Barclay,  turning  slightly  pale. 

*'  Why,  no,"  replied  the  friend.  "  But,  as  I  said, 
business  is  always  precarious,  especially  as  it  is  con- 
ducted in  these  times;  and  Mr.  Avery  is  one  of 
those  men  who  go  upon  the  high-pressure  principle 


IS  IT   SAFE?   IS   IT   HONESf  ?  205 


If  he  escape  an  explosion,  he  will  make  a  splendid 
fortune ;  if  not,  he  will  make  a  splendid  failure. 
That's  my  opinion  of  him." 

And  yet  this  very  man,  in  the  prevailing  spirit 
of  exaggeration,  had  said  so  much  in  Avery's  favour 
as  an  enterprising,  successful,  and  substantial  mer- 
chant, that  Mrs.  Barclay's  mind  was  carried,  in 
regard  to  him,  entirely  beyond  the  feeling  of  a 
doubt. 

To  see  Avery  and  demand  security,  was  a  thing 
that  the  widow  could  not  do.  She  had  volunteered 
her  confidence,  and  now,  to  go  forward  and  forcibly 
withdraw  it  was  so  like  an  insult,  that  her  mind 
shrank  from  the  thought.  But  she  was  deeply 
troubled.  For  two  or  three  years  she  had  striven 
to  keep  her  little  ones  around  her,  and  had  succeeded 
in  doing  so,  but  at  the  expense  of  health.  The 
decision  of  the  court,  made  at  last  in  her  favour, 
gave  her  sufficient  property,  if  invested  safely,  and 
the  income  therefrom  prudently  dispensed,  to  raise 
her  little  family,  and  give  them  the  blessing  of  a 
good  education.  But  now,  all  was  uncertain  again. 
Her  money  had  passed  from  her  hands,  and  she 
had  no  security  for  its  return  but  the  word  and  bond 
of  a  man  who  might  not  be  able  to  fulfil  his  obliga- 
tion. 

While  the  widow's  mind  was  in  this  state  of  dis- 
tressing doubt,  there  occurred  a  large  failure  in  the 

city.     The  merchant  whose  career  came  thus  sud 
ex.— 18 


206  IS  IT   SAFE?   IS   IT   HONEST? 

denly  to  a  close,  was  the  very  one  who  had  tempted 
Avery  from  the  partially  obscure,  but  safe  path  in 
which  he  was  treading.  At  every  step  in  the  new 
way,  this  man  had  been  near  Avery,  with  suggestions 
and  propositions;  and  it  was  not  long  after  the  latter 
began  to  move  on  at  the  new  and  more  rapid  pace, 
before  mutual  money  engagements  were  made,  and 
the  two  played  into  each  other's  hand  in  the  way 
of  endorsements  and  such-like  matters.  When  the 
failure  took  place  at  last,  Avery  was  so  hopelessly 
involved  with  his  enterprising  friend,  that  his  stop- 
page became  also  necessary. 

When  this  last  news  reached  the  widow's  ears, 
she  became  half  frantic  with  alarm.  Her  first  step 
was  to  go  to  Avery. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,  madam/'  said  he,  the  moment 
he  saw  her;  "you  are  safe  enough.  I  am  ruined 
entirely,  through  the  failure  of  another;  but  you 
are  safe.  Borrowed  money  is  always  considered  a* 
a  preferred  debt." 

Thus  he  pushed  her  off,  and  partially  quieted  her 
agitation  of  mind.  An  examination  into  the  mer- 
chant's affairs  exhibited  a  condition  of  things  un- 
dreamed of;  his  personal  expenses  had  been  over 
five  thousand  dollars  for  several  years — far  more 
than  all  his  real  profits.  Forced  loans  at  exorbitant 
interest,  and  a  wide  range  of  bad  debts,  added  to 
the  heavy  amount  of  discounted  paper  in  which  he 
was  involved  by  the  recent  failure,  left  the  probable 


IS   IT   SAFE?  IS  IT   HONEST?  207 


per  centage  on  bis  real  assets  so  low  as  to  fill  every 
creditor  with  hopelessness  and  amazement. 

"What  are  my  chances?"  asked  Mrs.  Barclay, 
with  trembling  interest,  of  a  gentleman,  at  whose 
house  she  awaited  a  report  from  the  first  meeting 
of  creditors. 

"  Not  worth  a  copper/'  was  the  reply.  "  His 
whole  assets  would  hardly  pay  your  claim.  I  never 
saw  such  a  tbtal  wreck.  No  man  who  has  gone  on 
as  wildly  as  he  has  done — no  man  who  has  lied  so 
about  the  real  state  of  his  business,  can  be  honest." 

Poor  Mrs.  Barclay !  What  could  she  do  but  cover 
her  face  with  her  hands  and  weep  ?  A  deeper  dark- 
ness than  she  had  yet  known  fell  upon  her  spirits. 
From  the  mountain  of  hope,  she  was  dashed  head- 
long into  the  dark  valley  of  despair.  As  for  Avery, 
he  saw,  when  it  was  too  late,  that  he  had  acted  with 
most  unpardonable  folly,  thereby  ruining  himself, 
and  involving  others  in  a  like  calamity.  He  had 
started  in  business  with  the  belief  that  it  was  possi- 
ble to  succeed,  and  yet  be  governed  in  every  thing 
by  a  strict  regard  to  truth  and  honesty.  Under  that 
system,  he  was  getting  on  very  well ;  he  was  slowly 
but  surely  laying  the  foundation  for  future  prospe- 
rity. But  the  false  appearances  put  on  by  those 
around  him,  who  lived  beyond  their  means  in  order 
to  create  a  factitious  confidence,  and  thereby  enlarge 
their  credits,  tempted  him  from  his  safe  course,  and 
he  was  soon  upon  the  troubled  sea  of  trade,  almost 


208  18   IT   SAFE?   IS  IT   HONEST? 


without  rudder  or  compass.  That  he  made  ship- 
wreck, is  by  no  means  a  matter  of  surprise. 

A  few  weeks  after  the  unhappy  Mrs.  Barclay  had 
learned  the  hopelessness  of  her  case,  she  was  sitting 
alone,  brooding  over  her  sad  condition.  The  plea- 
sant little  house  into  which  she  had  removed,  and 
where  she  had  hoped  to  find  a  home  with  her  chil- 
dren for  years,  must  now  be  given  up,  for  she  had 
no  means  of  paying  the  rent.  What  was  she  to  do  ? 
Her  little  ones  were  all  asleep  and  happy;  but,  in  a 
month  from  that  time,  would  she  have  a  home  for 
them  ?  The  thought  made  her  weep. 

"  A  gentleman  wishes  to  see  you  in  the  parlour," 
said  her  domestic,  coming  to  the  door. 

"  Who  is  it  ?"  she  inquired,  looking  up  with  wet 
eyes. 

"  His  name  is  Mr.  Avery." 

"Mr.  Avery?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am ;  that  was  the  name  he  gave." 

"  Tell  him  I  will  see  him  in  a  few  minutes." 

Mrs.  Barclay  composed  herself  as  best  she  could, 
and  in  about  five  minutes  went  down  to  the  parlour 
Mr.  Avery  looked  haggard. 

"  Madam,"  he  said,  as  he  arose  and  offered  he* 
his  hand,  "  I  am  ruined,  but  you  are  safe." 

"  Me !"  exclaimed  the  widow.  "  Oh,  sir,  do  not 
create  false  hopes." 

"  I  believe  what  I  say,  ma'am.  I  have  just  left 
a  meeting  of  my  creditors,  at  which  I  plead  your 


IS  IT   SAFE?   IS   IT   HONEST?  209 


cause  so  earnestly,  that  I  succeeded  in  getting  a 
decision  in  your  favour.  Your  claim  is  to  be  paid  in 
full.  I  could  not  rest  until  I  brought  you  this  good 
news." 

Surprise,  gratitude,  and  delight  kept  the  widow 
silent  for  some  moments.  When  she  sought  to  give 
utterance  to  her  feelings,  sobs  choked  her. 

"  I  conducted  business  on  a  false  principle/'  said 
Mr.  Avery,  during  the  brief  interview  held  with 
Mrs.  Barclay,  "  and  failure  has  been  the  result. 
Now,  heavily  burdened  with  a  debt  that  I  can  never 
pay,  I  go  forth  into  the  world  with  no  means  of  sup- 
porting my  family  but  what  lie  in  my  own  unaided 
individual  efforts.  I  have  received  a  bitter  lesson, 
but  it  is  learned,  I  fear,  too  late.  Perhaps,  the  only 
pleasant  feeling  I  shall  ever  have,  in  referring  to 
this  period  in  my  life,  will  arise  from  the  fact  that 
your  little  property  was  saved,  not  lost." 

And  it  was  saved.  A  generous  feeling  among  the 
wronged  creditors,  when  they  understood  the  case 
of  Mrs.  Barclay,  led  them  to  forego  a  trifling  advan- 
tage each,  that  she  might  not  lose  her  all. 

Hundreds  of  men  act  upon  the  principle  that 
Avery  adopted  in  business;  and  hundreds  who  do 
adopt  it,  fail  in  the  end,  where  one  succeeds.  To 
act  from  such  a  principle  is  NEITHER  SAFE  NOR 

HONEST. 

18* 


HARMLESS  GLASS  OF  WINE. 


"  ROSE,  dear/'  said  Mrs.  Carl  ton  to  her  daughter, 
whom  she  met  at  the  door  of  the  dining-room  with 
a  decanter  of  wine  and  glasses  on  a  waiter,  "  who  is 
in  the  parlour?" 

"  Mr.  Newton,"  replied  the  young  girl. 

"  The  young  man  from  New  York  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"You  are  going  to  take  him  wine?" 

"Yes.  It  is  only  hospitable  to  offer  him  some 
refreshment." 

Mrs.  Carlton  stood  with  her  eyes  resting  on  the 
floor  for  some  moments,  in  a  thoughtful  attitude. 

"  I  rather  think,  Rose,"  said  she,  as  she  lifted 
her  eyes  to  her  daughter's  face,  "  that  it  would  be 
as  well  not  to  hand  him  wine." 

"  Why,  mother  ?"  inquired  Rose,  looking  curious. 

"  We  know  nothing  of  the  young  man's  previous 
life  and  habits." 

"Why  do  you  say  that,  mother?"  asked  Rose, 
who  did  not  comprehend  the  meaning  of  what  had 
been  uttered. 


HARMLESS  GLASS  OP  WINE.       211 


t(  He  may  have  been  intemperate. " 
"  Mother,  how  can  you  imagine  such  a  thing?" 
"  I  know  nothing  of  him  whatever,  my  child/' 
replied  Mrs.  Carlton,  "  and  do  not  wish  to  wrong 
him  by  an  unkind  suspicion.  -  My  suggestion  is  no- 
thing more  than  the  dictate  of  a  humane  prudence. 
We  never  can  know  whose  perverted  taste  we  may 
inflame,  when  we  set  even  wine  before  guests  of 
whose  history  we  know  nothing;  it  is  therefore 
wiser  to  restrain.  But  you  have  left  Mr.  Newton 
alone,  and  must  not  linger  here ;  do  not,  however, 
present  him  with  wine.  After  he  is  gone,  we  will 
talk  on  this  subject  again,  when  I  think  you  will  be 
satisfied  that  my  present  advice  is  good." 

Rose  left  the  wine  on  the  sideboard,  and  went 
back  to  the  parlour,  wondering  at  what  she  had 
heard.  After  the  young  man  had  gone  away,  she 
joined  her  mother,  when  the  latter  said — "You 
seemed  surprised  at  my  remarks  a  little  while  ago; 
and  I  was,  perhaps,  as  much  surprised  when  like 
suggestions  were  made  to  me;  but  when,  from 
indisputable  evidence,  we  become  aware  that  our 
actions  may  wrong  others,  we  are  bound,  by  every 
consideration,  to  guard  against  such  injurious  results. 
You  know  how  painfully  afflicted  the  family  of  Mr. 
Delaney  has  been,  in  consequence  of  the  intemperate 
habits  of  Morton?" 

"Yes.  Poor  Flora!  The  last  time  I  was  with 
her,  ne  passed  us  in  the  street  so  much  intoxicated 


HARMLESS   GLASS   OP   WINE. 


that  he  almost  staggered.  Her  heart  was  «*o  full 
that  she  could  not  speak,  and  when  I  left  her,  a 
little  while  afterward,  her  eyes  were  ready  to  gush 
over  with  tears." 

"  Unhappy  young  man !  So  young,  and  yet  so 
abandoned." 

*'  Until  I  met  him,  as  just  said,  I  thought  he  had 
reformed  his  bad  habit  of  drinking,"  said  Rose. 

"  It  was  in  order  to  refer  to  this  fact  that  I  men- 
tioned his  name  just  now,"  returned  her  mother. 
"  He  did  attempt  to  do  better,  and  for  some  months 
kept  fast  hold  of  his  good  resolutions ;  but,  in  an 
evil  hour,  he  fell,  and  his  temptress  was  a  young 
girl  of  your  own  age,  Rose.  A  few  weeks  ago,  he 
went  to  New  York  on  business;  while  there,  he 
visited  the  house  of  a  relative,  where  wine  was  pre- 
sented to  him  by  a  beautiful  cousin,  and  he  had  not 
the  resolution  to  refuse  the  sparkling  draught.  He 
tasted,  and — you  have  seen  the  result." 

"  Oh,  mother,"  exclaimed  Rose,  "  I  would  not 
have  that  cousin's  feelings  for  the  world." 

a  She  acted  as  innocently  as  you  would  have  done 
just  now,  my  daughter." 

"  Was  she  not  aware  of  his  weakness  ?" 

"  No ;  nor  had  she  ever  been  told  that,  for  one 
whose  taste  is  vitiated,  it  is  dangerous,  in  the  high- 
est degree,  to  take  even  a  glass  of  wine." 

"  I  am  so  glad  that  I  did  not  offer  wine  to  Mr. 
Newton,"  said  Rose,  drawing  a  long  breath. 


HARMLESS  GLASS  OF  WINE.  213 


"  Mr.  Newton/'  returned  the  mother,  "  may  never 
have  used  intoxicating  drinks  to  excess;  he  may  not 
be  in  danger  from  a  glass  of  wine  :  but  I  know  no- 
thing of  his  previous  life,  and,  therefore,  it  is  wisest 
to  take  counsel  of  prudence.  This  is  just  what  I 
want  you  to  see  for  yourself.  To  such  an  extent 
has  intemperance  prevailed  in  this  country,  that  the 
whole  community,  to  a  certain  extent,  have  pervert- 
ed appetites,  which  are  excited  so  inordinately  by 
any  kind  of  stimulating  drink  as  to  destroy,  in  too 
many  instances,  all  self-control.  Another  case,  even 
more  painful  to  contemplate  than  that  of  Morton 
Delaney,  occurred  in  this  city,  last  week ;  I  heard 
of  it  a  day  or  two  since.  A  beautiful  young  girl 
was  addressed  by  a  gentleman  who  had  recently 
removed  here  from  the  South ;  and  her  friends,  see- 
ing nothing  about  him  to  wairant  disapprobation, 
made  no  objection  to  his  suit.  An  engagement  soon 
followed,  and  the  wedding  was  celebrated  a  few  days 
ago.  The  father  of  the  bride  gave  a  brilliant  enter- 
tainment to  a  large  and  elegant  company;  the  choicest 
wines  were  used  more  freely  than  water,  and  the 
young  husband  drank  with  the  rest.  Alas !  before 
the  evening  closed,  he  was  so  much  intoxicated  that 
he  had  to  be  separated  from  the  company;  and,  what 
is  worse,  he  has  not  been  sober  for  an  hour  since/' 

t(  Oh,  what  a  sad,  sad  thing  \"  exclaimed  Rose. 

"  It  is  sad,  sad  indeed !  What  an  awakening 
from  a  dream  of  exquisite  happiness  was  that  of  the 


£14  HARMLESS   GLASS   OF   WINE. 


beautiful  bride!  It  now  appears  that  the  young 
man  had  fallen  into  habits  of  dissipation,  and  after- 
wards  reformed.  On  his  wedding-night,  he  could 
not  refuse  a  glass  of  wine;  a  single  draught  sufficed 
to  rekindle  the  old  fire,  that  was  smouldering,  not 
extinguished.  He  fell,  and,  so  far,  has  not  risen 
from  his  fall,  and  may  never  rise."  » 

"  You  frighten  me/'  said  Rose,  while  a  shudder 
went  through  her  frame ;  "  I  never  dreamed  of  such 
danger  in  a  glass  of  wine.  Pure  wine  I  have  always 
looked  upon  as  a  good  thing.  I  did  not  think  that 
it  would  lead  any  one  into  danger." 

"  Even  the  best  of  things,  my  child,  may  be  turn- 
ed to  an  evil  purpose.  The  heat  and  light  of  the 
sun  are  received  by  one  plant  and  changed  into  a 
poison,  while  another  converts  it  into  healthy  and 
nourishing  food.  Pure  wine  will  not  excite  a  healthy 
appetite,  although  it  may  madden  one  that  has  be- 
come morbid  through  intemperance.  Here  is  the 
distinction  that  ought  to  be  made." 

"  Is  it  not  dangerous,  then,  to  serve  wine  in  pro- 
miscuous companies?" 

"  Undoubtedly.  I  did  not  think  so,  a  little  while 
ago,  because  the  subject  was  not  presented  to  my 
mind  in  the  light  that  it  now  is.  To  this  custom  I 
can  well  believe  that  hundreds,  who  had  begun  the 
work  of  restricting  their  craving  appetites,  owe  their 
downfall.  Where  all  are  partaking,  the  temptation 
to  join  in  it  is  almost  irresistible ;  especially,  as  a  re- 


HARMLESS  GLASS  OP  WINE.       215 


fusal  might  create  a  suspicion  against  the  individual 
that  he  was  afraid  to  trust  himself/' 

"  I  will  be  very  careful  how  I  offer  wine  to  any 
one  again/'  said  Rose.  "  I  would  not  have  the 
guilt  of  tempting  a  man  to  ruin  upon  my  conscience, 
for  all  the  world." 

The  visits  of  Mr.  Newton  to  Rose,  which  at  first 
were  only  occasional,  became  more  and  more  fre- 
quent. A  mutual  attachment  ensued,  which  ended 
in  marriage.  No  wine  was  provided  at  the  wedding 
party — to  many,  a  strange  omission — and  Hose  ob- 
served that,  at  the  parties  given  by  friends,  her 
husband  invariably  let  the  wine  pass  him  uritasted. 
Curious  to  know  the  reason  for  such  abstemiousness, 
she  one  day,  some  months  after  marriage,  said  to 
him — "  Do  you  never  drink  wine?" 

The  question  caused  Newton  to  look  serious,  and 
he  replied  in  a  simple  monosyllable. 

"  Don't  you  like  it  ?"  inquired  Rose. 

"  Yes ;  too  well,  perhaps/' 

The  way  in  which  this  was  said,  half-startled  the 
young  wife.  Newton  saw  the  effect  of  his  words, 
and,  forcing  a  smile,  said — "  When  quite  a  young 
man,  I  was  thrown  much  into  gay  company,  and 
there  acquired  a  bad  habit  of  using  all  kinds  of  in- 
toxicating drinks  with  a  dangerous  freedom.  Before 
I  was  conscious  of  my  error,  I  was  verging  on  rapidly 
to  the  point  of  losing  all  self-control.  Startled  at 
finding  myself  in  such  a  position,  I  made  a  resolu 


£16  HARMLESS  GLASS  OF  WINE. 


tion  to  abandon  the  use  of  every  thing  but  wine. 
This,  however,  did  not  reach  the  evil.  The  taste 
of  wine  excited  my  appetite  to  such  a  degree  that  I 
invariably  resorted  to  brandy  for  its  gratification , 
I  then  abandoned  the  use  of  wine,  as  the  only  safe 
course  for  me,  and,  with  occasional  exceptions,  have 
strictly  adhered  to  my  resolution.  In  a  few  in- 
stances, young  ladies,  at  whose  houses  I  yisited,  have 
presented  me  with  wine ;  and,  not  wishing  to  push 
back  the  proffered  refreshment,  I  have  tasted  it. 
The  consequence  was  invariable.  A  burning  desire 
for  stronger  stimulants  was  awakened,  that  carried 
me  away  as  by  an  irresistible  power.  You,  Rose, 
never  tempted  me  in  this  way;  had  you  done  so,  we 
might  not  have  been  as  happy  as  we  are  to-day." 

A  shudder  passed  through  the  frame  of  the  young 
wife,  as  she  remembered  the  glass  of  wine  she  had 
been  so  near  presenting  to  his  lips.  Never  after- 
ward could  she  think  of  it  without  an  inward  tre- 
mour,  and  fears  for  the  future  mingled  with  her 
thoughts  of  the  past;  but  these  have  proved  ground- 
less fears,  for  Mr.  Newton  has  no  temptation  at 
home,  and  he  has  resolution  enough  to  refuse  a 
glass  of  wine  in  any  company,  and  on  all  occasions. 
Herein  lies  his  safety. 

:    '  THB  END. 


IIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


RENEWED  BOOKS  ARE  SUBJECT  TO  IMMEDIATE 
RECALL 


N2  461911 

PS1039 

Arthur,  T.S.  A77 

Seed-time  and  harvest.    S4 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


